Only a poem this morning

Joanne left this poem in comments a few days ago, (thank you) so I thought to record it here as we are in bumblebee prime time.  Naomi shihab Nye is a poet I have never come across before, so in the space of two weeks I have been introduced to two new poets, Brian Bilston is the other, I will put him up later on in the week.

A friend from long ago said on F/B that perhaps one day we would meet up at the stones. That part of my life seems to have vanished, though I will still drag up a photo or two but to be honest Yorkshire does not hold such a delightful palette of prehistoric stone circles and stones as Wiltshire.  Avebury, Stonehenge, and Stanton Drew stone circles.  Stoney Littleton, Wayland Smithy and West Kennet Barrow cannot be found round here.

Silbury Hill 

GIRLS, GIRLS

When the boys are alone,
they wash the dishes with facecloths.

When a honeybee is alone — rare, very rare —
it tastes the sweetness
it lives inside all the time.

What pollen are we gathering, anyway?
Bees take naps, too.
Maybe honeybees taste pollen side by side
pretending they’re alone.
Maybe the concept of “alone” means nothing
in a hive.

A bumblebee is not a honeybee.
It only pretends to be.

The cell phone in your pocket
buzzes against your leg.
It’s not a honeybee, though. It’s just a
mining bee, or leaf-cutter, or
carpenter.

You’re stung by messages from people far away.
You can’t make anyone well.
You can’t stop a war.
What good are you?

Bees drink from thousands of flowers,
spitting up nectar
so you may have honey
in your tea.

Maybe you don’t want to think about it
so much.
Pass the honey please.

During winter, bees lock legs
and beat wings fast to stay warm.
Fifty thousand bees can live in
a single hive.
Clover honey is most popular
and clover is a weed.
All the worker bees are female.
Why is that no surprise?

-Naomi Shihab Nye, from Honeybee

It's a sorry state of affairs