Wooden Bells

A civil cluster of yellow bees

Congregates in the tall stocks

Of blue-wheat grass.

A class of artificial monks

Swings by, diving for golden rod

Syrup and aluminum wings.

These things with busy 

Abdomens, they buzz and bumble

Beyond words. This world, 

It crumbles without this 

Goblin lull.

Tiny souls of nectar and seeds

Find themselves stacked upon

Each other, their small fragile

Knees knocking like wooden bells.

Brothers from a lucky hive

Come to reunite

In the tall stocks

Of blue-wheat grass.


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