A Winter's Lament

I know it's winter still
and spring isn't that far away,
but the honey bee
that stung my arm
will never see the daffodils,
Lupine, Phlox , and
Black-eyed Susan's
that it may have seen here
last year – it crossed a line,
and now lies dead, squashed,
mushed and stepped upon.

Poor thing.

Like me,
like my heart,
my soul – it failed to see
the end coming.

It died, literally.
I died,
figuratively I guess –
I still walk, talk, eat, sleep –
Zombie like,
and yes, I crave human flesh,
Hers,
she who lies beneath the very flowers
that honey-bee was seeking.

I'm sorry now.

For the honey-bee
and especially for me –
here I took a life . . .
while standing above
the one I'd love
to get back.


© wesley james beard, jr.
february 15, 2014