Colony Collapse Disorder

I really do have some prose coming. I can’t quite nail it down as my head fevered and my dreams are roses and her skull necklace. Corona virus finally dug her way into me on this rainy spring day. I am just laying about watching the rooster stand in the wind, dripping and crowing for the seeds to rise and the sun to come strong here in the foothills of the Whites. Just a poem to keep some skin in the game.

Colony Collapse Disorder 

Through the gates of dusk
I saw the messiah
sprawled on the hillside,
elbows to earth.
She bowed her head
speaking softly into the brush: 

The sun is going down, beautiful winged sister, 

but this night you will not look to the hive;
this night, spread out in an isolation
conducted by fate, nectar and the wind,
you and yours will leave a testament in the wet grass.. 

On the wind I hear a queen
counting down the names of your kin
Only the tip toe of evening,
already in the dark between the trees, answers.

I will sit with you for a while.
Tell me of empty combs.
I will tell you of empty words. 

Compañera, they laugh at our words upon the walls
as the centrifuge that spins all sweetness against its steel.
The scent of vacant hives fills the air.

We do not worry power. 

I will pass this night with you, Sister,
until only the breeze rattles your wings
though it is hard to see this end,
your sting, bayonet sharp
unspoken. 

When dawn comes I will head back.
I am not ready to remain here just yet,
dark stories ambering my tongue
desires, bayonet sharp
now swarming.