When There Were Bees

Did any one of them ever think
haven’t we enough honey made yet?
Have we not drained the glade?
What happened to our brothers
who strayed too far from the scent?
What happened to our brothers
whose broken bodies remind us
if we leave the garden we make the gods unhappy?

Best to stick to what we know:
dowsing for nectar to sate the hive,
fur collecting fragments of sun,
beating wings so fast we’re not really trying;
praying all of this honey may sweeten
even the angriest of gods.