The Rite of Spring
Bees have no concept of June
during March’s final frosts.
Biting breezes, frozen mud
leech lifeblood from the moss.
April rains may herald sun,
but the deluge drowns the roots
of seedlings atop the soil,
a sorry, failing sluice.
May’s blossoming noon will doubtless rise,
lift the fog of gnats before our eyes.
The field is where the bee belongs --
if she can last the winter long.