At Least Be The Bee | Carlyle R. Phelps

At Least Be the Bee:

Around the path’s bend, outlined in evergreens,
Just passed the doublewide with stills and steam,
About where the crick pecks the shore’s cheek,
A lone flower pokes out of a crumbled mortar peek.
Soft white petals pushing up through brick moss,
Surrounding the spurred yellow face of the Columbine.
Rooted in the roof of a neglected domed oven—
Where women roasted lamb for husbands and young ‘uns.
The soul floral parishioner in this forested liturgy—
A narrow spotlight streams through the pine canopy,
She’s standing there in the beam, bowing in the breeze—

A singular port of harbor for those bumbling bees,
Who amble far from their hive, their kin, and their queen.
A sweeter nectar nary a proboscis could taste,
Like a cool, misty shower to a deserted cavalcade.
Humming through the distractions, straight to the aim,
Pollinating their portion with the haven they claim.

The horse flies skulk, looking for something savory;
Something buried beneath the brown, needled carpentry.
They pass the only beauty in a sea of dirging trees.
Their bitter labella couldn’t bear the sucrose,
So they buzz and dig for something rotting and gross.

Raucous neighbors lob slurs at the pluck of her intension—
Insisting there’s no logic in her elevated habitation—
While runoff from their boiler pickles the other vegetation.
Tipsy fingers and wasted eyes, mindless of their surroundings,
They’re good for plucking strings, but not so much for gardening.

The humble white flower is making heaven out of hell,
A saint in the desert, or a tale from Paisios’ cell—
The honey in the lion, perhaps even Christ on the tree,
But if you can’t be the flower, at least be the bee.

Linktree:
https://linktr.ee/carlylephelpspoetry

Book available on Amazon:
https://a.co/d/0izYNGf