The Trouble with Bossy Busy Bees

My short-haired, dark-eyed precious friend,

planted in the 1900s in radiant Californian atmosphere,

leisurely grew a sturdy, straight as an arrow backbone

and hands that outstretched and searched

for the daily, warm sunshine and occasional, torrential storms.

 

I constantly worried for her,

since her stem was wider than most

and her curious mouth spoke quicker

than her mind could think,

which got her in trouble at school

and inspired even more trouble at home.

 

My endearing friend sprouted and bloomed

as bright and beautiful as a rose,

as well as sharp and dangerous as its thorns.

She swayed in the gentle winds of compliments

and pricked when criticisms got too close.

 

My harsh voice among others shook her delicate petals

ands a way of protection she fastened herself tight.

Frustratingly my soft, tender fertilization

never worked to salvage her trust.

 

I promised to set her in a sturdy vase of glass

and to pour in only the most rejuvenating water

with round, smooth pebbles so

that she could be guided to an easy life by

reliable stepping stones.

 

But she shied and bent away from me

and oh, there came the bossy busy bees

that buzzed in her ear and caused her beauty

to wear and tear with staggering experience of

how souls with tongues that dripped with honey could

cause the most burning stings.

 

And she wilted and I watched as day

by day her color faded and the stem,

the backbone she had relied on,

surrendered and bowed to misery.

 

So I uprooted her from the wicked soil

and re-planted her in my beating heart,

where my clement blood rushed to

re-color her with a healthy blush of red,

far from the keen killer bees

lead by the poisonous queen bee.

 

Her heart, reborn in my loving soul,

pounded in tune with the beat

of the syllables of the word: awesome.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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