FLOWERS, BEES, HUNGRY PUDDLES, AND PREMATURE REUPTAKE
That blood in the water
is not from a body
but rose up naturally rusty
from the moment this world began.
By it, social flowers try to sing,
and make the world go round,
but they rot at root in water
that drinks from them instead.
Their songs are cut short,
and they often loose the mind to speak,
but little bumblebees fly on unaware,
with their pollen-laden knees.
Unfortunately, too many fall short of flowers,
as the only way to them
is across the water,
whose main job is to compost them.
Too soon the puddle absorbs them,
prematurely conscripting them
to join the earth before they can
make it to the other side.
In this little world
of muddy puddles and improperly timed recycling,
the messages in pollen are often lost,
and float away unretrievably.
One thing I find sadder
than undelivered messages,
flowers that can't sing,
and blamelessly useless bees:
The fact that this chaotic mess
is actually a metaphor,
and what it means for me and my brain
is not necessarily a good thing.