Here we have no window-screens
With our fresh air, we get bees
Bees stumble in, drunk on sun-bloom;
drunk on summer’s breath, they bumble
against the glass
Glass is this medium they can’t comprehend;
they know sky-grass-floral, but impermeable air?
They beat hopelessly against it, the bees
On golden days, I open windows
and help them leave
Graceful Press Poetry 
Very nice. Poor confused, drunk stumbling bees–surely glad for your assistance!
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So first, the notion that anyone can make the bees sit still reminds me of how I felt when my boys were three years old — the most bee-like age for us. Big smile.
Second, your poem makes me wonder about poetry as an act of stillness and movement — and how those two forces interact in writing process. I think you poem brings that out so well. Nice job!
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I can’t imagine bees–or small boys–being still, either! Right now, with chilly nights and warm days, the bees are absolutely going crazy–all up and down my sidewalk in the flowering shrubs. Of course in these poems I can’t ever get at exactly what I think or mean–the bees are just too endlessly fascinating–maybe I’ll do a whole collection of bee poems. 😉
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Aristotle says humans are the most political of all animals. Who does he compare us to? Bees! They are the prime (nonhuman) example he uses for a political animal. Great minds think alike!
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