The silence of the Rowan tree
Its power, surrounding, beckons me
To sit a spell.

The bees, their sucking, humming vibe
Bring nectar to their gath'ring tribe.
They've tales to tell.

And in the quiet of the sun
I think no more of work undone.
I start to dream.

There in the Rowan tree I climb
Unaware of passing time
So young I seem.

On a branch twice bent and bare
I sit and feel the midday air
Both warm and sweet.

But in my comfort as I swoon,
The darkness comes, and then the moon
And night and stillness meet.

A bee, who's buzzing daylight dance
Ceases his work and sees his chance
To 'light nearby.

As he is sadly resting there
Upon my twisted Rowan chair,
I hear him sigh.

"Why have you come by me to rest?
You should be back in your honeyed nest."
I ask the bee.

"I've left the labor of my hand,
For there is trouble in the land."
Says he to me.

Then, as the bee hums soft and low,
The Rowan tree begins to grow
Above the earth.

Branches stretch out wide and long
The trunk is twice as tall and strong--
A larger girth.

Puzzled, I look at the bee
Who stares directly back at me
In grief and pain.

"Just look at what they've done!" he cries
And turning back I squint my eyes
My vision strained.

"I do not understand, my friend,"
I say as he comes to ascend
And fly away.

I sit and ponder at his word,
Confused by that which I had heard
The bee to say.

Why would the bee, his labor cease
And fail to have a sense of peace
About this place?

Why did the tree grow up so high?
Why did the bee fly away with a sigh
At such a hurried pace?

And then the bright moon from above
Reaches down with a gentle shove
And smiles at me.

"Don't be vexed and don't be cross.
It is not a total loss,
As you shall see.

"You must know that there are those
Whose ignorant simplicity grows
Each passing day.

"They have no eyes to see the life,
And unknowingly they cause great strife
Along their way."

The moon then points way off, afar,
To a lonesome honey jar
Upturned there.

Golden liquid spilling out,
Slowly dripping round about,
Sweetens the air.

I see, then, why the bee gives fuss,
Though an upturned jar means naught to us,
It does to one

Who's work of life and destiny
Is to make honey as a bee,
Who's task is never done.

I think, "why leave it simply lying there
In the hot midsummer air
To melt in heat of day?

What misled pup without a thought
Caused the jar its empty lot
And swiftly ran away?"

"You see, my child," the moon smiles on,
"The bee had worked from dusk till dawn
For weeks to make that bit."

And here I wake beneath the tree,
Sunlight shining down on me,
In pond'rance I sit.

The Rowan tree, its normal size,
Fills my head, and I realize
That it was all a mist.

A dream it was, but, I must say
I'll never see honey in quite the same way--
An odd little twist.

I stand to leave and stretch in place
And on my hands, I feel a trace
Of stickiness on me.

A drop of honey sparkles here
And then comes buzzing past my ear,
A naughty little bee.

                         Denise L. 3-24-08

Seamonster,

This is awesome....I have read twice thru, and everytime, it touches me differently....very beautiful. May I print it for my personal BOS??

Thank you for sharing your wonderful prose with us!

You're welcome!  And, of COURSE you can print it for your personal BOS!  I am honored!

This was awesome. Aww the poor little bee. He did all that work just to have it ruined by someone not paying attention.  I can every get my poems to flow like that. It was wonderful. ^__^

Great poem!!!!!

Very well put. Beautiful.