Not just the fruit of our fields of labor,
the weighted arbor, the blessed abundance of the earth.
Not just the winged alchemists, transmuting tirelessness into gold
season after season.
Not just the buzzing congregation, the heat of their gathered bodies,
expressing through dance their solemn and unshakable purpose.
When we lose the bees we will lose the devoutest of pilgrims,
who dusts her six feet on the doorsteps of a thousand fleeting cathedrals,
who casts faceted eyes over vaulted petals
before heading home in her lifelong chastity, bearing blessings for her sisters:
selfless, industrious, obedient,
all the religion man aspired to after the fall.
We'll lose the one who made the apple. The one who lives still in the garden
and has never drawn one breath in doubt.