’Fore me climbed a bee on fallen leaf and
Under the crisp, cool, blue October sky
Prepar’d herself a lonesome death as I
Wondered why- is this not what she had planned?
‘Tis said that in the warrior’s native land,
Like that of the Viking fierce or Spart’n proud
And o’ the bee too where fear’s not allowed
The only proud passing comes on field at foe’s hand.
Mem’ries of battles and sweet nectar dis’vowed
Wishing she had died deliv’ring a sting.
And as she, full of shame, spent final breath
Driven by disgrace from the comb-dwelt crowd,
She lay ‘fore me on this leaf lamenting
That she had not died an honorable death.
***
(Minneapolis, MN -- October, 2015)
I'm pretty sure this is the first poem I ever wrote, and honestly, it went downhill from this for a while! Fearless and ignorant, I wrote this sonnet after seeing a bee staggering around by a fallen leaf. It became still, and I realized that it had died. Everything I know about worker bees is that they're so dedicated to service to the hive that it must be considered selfish to die in such a "meaningless" way. I remembered learning about sonnets in high school, so I gave it try! I promise my style modernized a bit since then.
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