Like dancing bees, we stumble from our hives And bumble off in search of nectared fame; A careless sting rips out our fumbling lives, And worker, drone or Queen— we fare the same. For what? For what! For honey in the sky? For heaven’s combs where bee-gods whir and dance On endless summer days; where no bees die? Dream on; the days grow short. The sting is chance.
Candlewood, Connecticut December 12. 2005
Poem Published in the following books: Island of Dreams