Busy Buzzing...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 28, 2018

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Submitted: May 28, 2018

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Although the rays of golden sunlight shone gently down on earth,

And all the grasses and blossoms swayed gracefully,

Although the luscious morning breeze blew,

Although the trees whispered across the streets,

And the birds chirped and sang cheerfully,

I must not be distracted.

 

We are the most dedicated workers.

We work for our mother,

We work for our clan.

We carry the most delicious and precious nectar,

And turn them into amber liquid.

Then carefully tuck them in to store it,

For the frosty winter.

 

We set out early

Onto the familiar route where the emerald bushes were the lushest,

Where the pink, red, white, yellow, and violet

Bloomed under the shades of the giant trees,

Or blossomed in the sunbeams.

 

We must not stop to sunbathe,

We must not halt to listen to the songs of the birds,

The jokes of ants,

Or the stories of the centuries-old trees,

Who would rustle and tell divine stories about heroes,

Or their life morals.

 

But sometimes we would envelop ourselves

In the soft, silky,

Bright-colored petals,

And rolled in the tickling pollen

Before we took off to the next station,

Bright red or pink or yellow,

With early-morning dews still lingering

And rolling

Like we did,

Glittering like spilled, dazzling diamonds.

 

We would relish in our heaven from before our familiar friend -

The affectionate sun,

Journeyed across from the darkening east,

To the west where the clouds roll,

Until he bid adieu to all the world,

Slowly retreating behind the horizon.

With grasses waving goodbye,

And sunflowers straining their necks to catch the last glimpse of him.

With fatigued trees leaning against each other,

Drained from their non-stop stories and gossipings.

With young, vigorous leaves dancing beneath the glamorous setting sun,

And faded, shabby aged leaves muttering farewell underneath the forlorn setting sun.

Then,

At the last minute or so we would halt and fly frantically from our paradise,

And watch as he slowly slipped down.

A blazing, vermillion fireball.

Dyed the faint blue canvas in the west in multi-colors,

And how startling and breathtaking it was!

As we recollect ourselves,

We would then race each other back home,

While skillfully carrying the clear, amber-like liquid

That shimmers and twinkles under the

Dramatically painted sky.

 

We return every day with

The sky turning into

Pitch darkness

With those indistinct shapes roaming in the dark.

But we need not fear -

With the towering street lights flickering,

And the orris-silver halo gleaming,

With the fireflies twinkling,

And the stars winking.

They lit our way back home.

And we wait

For another day of

Busy buzzing journey.

 


© Copyright 2018 Rosalind A. Hsieh. All rights reserved.