My heart is pale
as the daylight moon hiding
in the pines, trying to be full
with her south end sliced off;
a bent lamp to light
a ghost's foot.
My mind's black as soil
where skeletal leaves fall
from century's last rose, in the
color of memory wisteria blue, or
lavender as lamb's ear in thick sticky spikes
that trembled like your hand
with the loving of bees.
I would tell them you've gone
put out like a lamp, or a moon
snuffed to new; bees like to know
but they're husks in their hives
with their fat queen's stilled hum,
legs stiff as your lips so unsaved
by sacrifice, or perpetual labor
deep in the rose hips.
My eyes drip a mirror of scarlet birds.
I'll watch through the glass til all of us die
til our pink watery ghosts flow up and fall,
haunts with the bees in rose sunset sky.
posted for Ghosts
1) It's a longstanding tradition dating as far back as medieval times for beekeepers to go to their apiaries and inform the bees when someone in the household died so the bees could also mourn.
2) There is currently a worldwide pandemic of honey bee deaths, thought to be caused by pesticides and resultant weakening of the bees' immune systems. 8 species of bees are on the endangered species list, but not as yet the honey bee. Nonetheless, there have not been any honey or bumblebees in my own garden for at least the last three or four years.
Images: Wisteria and Bee, © Ohara Koson, 1930, Public Domain
Weird Sky, 2015 ©joyannjones