By RAHN ADAMS
If, like a honey bee, we could fly up and away / on some sunny Sabbath morn, / what should we prepare ourselves to pollinate / but take care not to let our productive presence adorn?
What if we seek out some sourwood / with our flight over hills and vales, / and we alight at some lakeshore or reservoir? / Or just buzz into town for a paper, two coffees and Saturday’s mail?
Wherever we might decide to hover, / we shouldn’t risk getting only a narrow, stained-glass view / like the mesmerized congregant / who sits way too long on his worn, red-cushioned pew.
So, why might we not linger there? / We’re not mean robber bees with stingers for guns; / I mean, nature’s laws are always in motion / and, in turn, rule everything under the sun.
It’s because, like Apis mellifera, / even a calm church may be full of golden honey, / but there’s still venom in that hive / that can end — for the love of money — the unwary intruder’s life.