In the garden ground is a nest of bumble bees
who go about their business with no intention of interruption.
who gather pollen, let a little go with each visit to a new interest;
Who in their beauty share the possibilities bountiful in their nature.
The garden needs a chore, a human chore to move your habitation
Out of the human breast to a less intrusive spot more amenable
To our common needs -- thinking less in common than in needs.
Oh, I wished you to be gone, placing our intentions' common purpose
Beyond our selfish needs. Yet tomorrow you were there and forever,
Beyond my existence, beyond my possibilities, beyond my narrow kind.
And so, forgiveness want, I waited till the sun could no longer witness
my ingratitude, my selfish ignorance. I burned your habitat and beauty,
your selfless existence, your sharing and my admiration and shame,
all one dissolving in the smoke of gasoline and match.