Bees Stumble Poem By Molly McQuade
The old-world machinery of beework
is an arguing with azure odds. The guys land, weave,
grab; headlights go dusty.
Some bees stumble—the knights are drastic. They go to ride.
What you didn’t see was the system.
They send a stiff, dark thread down to mine,
and withdraw it minutely. The flower throbs,
selfish, quirky. The bourse goes wild,
youngsters yell, cells are cracking,
and the big, mild farmers of our lives
divvy up the take,