Stinging Youth

January 4, 2010
By , Succasunna, NJ
Morning breaks with the rustling of leaves,
Awakening the lives of the slumbering naïve.
Perfume scents of flowers travel the sun’s rim
While others watch as day appears from its dim.

Among the few, dressed yellow and black
Appears into nature with wings on its back.
Buzzing past a window, flying free as a plane,
Caught ears of a boy, age ten, with his train.

“Mommy, Mommy” cried the boy,
“I heard a colossal bee while playing with my toy”.
A smile of happiness pushed her soft, smooth cheeks,
“They are interesting creatures, so pure and unique”.

“What it be like to be such a bee”,
Replied the son with gaiety and glee.
“Flying in the sky with no restraints
Only two antennas and flutters as weight”.

Mom had a crazed daze, amazed and confused.
But a chuckle appeared, as she was amused.
“You see, bees have no time to stop and stay.
Returning to the Crown, then rest for the next day”.

“But bees must have fun and play their games.
Fly into the blue, call others by name”.
He wore a face of a sad, sad smile.
His expression soon brought the mother to denial.

“Well bees make our honey” regaining the spirit.
“It’s for them and us, they sure do commit”.
His smile regained with these words of few.
But he had something else to say, a thought that’s new.

“Being a bee, that would be me!
Flying from the forest to the sparkling sea.
Doing anything a bee can do just because.
Saying my name through the day: Buzz Buzz Buzz!”

His mind was set, an iron smooth ball.
Like a fragile toothpick penetrating a brick wall.
They were made to work, never to play.
Following one path. Following one way.

“Mother, it is growling, it is my tummy.
May I have some bread with sweet spread honey?
But – AH – the honey jar is left empty!
How? Wasn’t this container’s belly filled plenty?”

“That my son is why,” as she sat and began.
“They must work, bees work as hard as they can,
To provide the sweets and to fill this pot.
It is very nice of them – now is it not?”

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