Bees, thousands and thousands, surviving in a hive under the soffit; bees, honeycombs, and honey, and dampness, and old wood sticky in the sunlight;
and the beekeeper’s hand, carefully, and slowly, vacuuming, and taking; the bees tumbling, gently, into the makeshift hive; honeybees, and honeycombs,
and honey, glistening; honey, the only food that will not spoil; honey, pulled from the pyramids, still sticky, and sweet, thousands of years later;
I may not believe, but I want to; and the bees before my eyes are now disappearing; bees God in the Qur’an inspired to build homes in mountains
and trees; bees that built homes in the trees near the grave in Detroit; and the bees in Jerusalem’s graves; bees in every city, and in every age; bees,
honey, and honeycombs, through disaster after disaster; bees building, and scouting, and dancing; bees mating, protecting, and attacking; the bees
are now disappearing, and dying; and the bees the beekeeper cannot save are dying but still guarding the empty hive, butting their heads against
my children, boys who will grow to be men and build their own homes, now dipping fingers into honey darkening on the ground; they are dying; the hive
is gone; the queen is gone; thousands and thousands, gone; but the bees will come back, and the hive will come back; if not here, then elsewhere; and there will be more bees
making more honeycombs, more honey, and more bees; and one day all the bees will be gone; gone, and gone; honeycombs, and houses, gone; and trees, gone; oak, elm,
birch, gone; all trees, flowers, gone; and birds, leaves, branches, cicadas, and crickets, grasshoppers, ants, worms, gone; and cities, and rivers, big cities, small cities,
big rivers, small rivers, gardens, and homes; and homes; the bees will be gone, and only their honey will survive, and we will not be around to taste it.
I shared this Kay Ryan (1945-) poem in a missive to friends (some of you who are reading this again) earlier this month and wanted to post it here on the last day of 2022. As I wrote in that correspondence, it isn’t ever delicate to live, but it feels especially less-delicate these days, like we keep spinning our intricate webs as forces around us try to pull them down.
For me the only way forward is to think of what helps my inner arachnid build and rebuild, of what keeps the ropes strong, of what posts I can hang onto, of what inspires me to keep spinning the threads despite it all. There is, of course, labor involved, but this is the work that makes the heavy work lighter to bear.
Sharing poems with all of you is definitely one of those buoying, bolstering forces. Thank you for reading what I shared during National Poetry Month this year. I hope the threads of your life are holding up okay, and that in 2023 you find–and create–support and joy in this delicate web we’re all spinning together.
From other angles the fibers look fragile, but not from the spider’s, always hauling coarse ropes, hitching lines to the best posts possible. It’s heavy work everyplace, fighting sag, winching up give. It isn’t ever delicate to live.
live in the layers 