The First Day of December

poem

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I open the December
curtains to discover
a dead honeybee on 
the window sill.

How did it get here?
Did it emerge alone
from hibernation
and freeze to death?

Do bees hibernate?
I'm not sure. God,
I'm confronted
daily by the endless

number of things
that I don't know.
Dear Bee, I'm sorry
that you left your hive

too early and died
without your tribe.
But I'm here to take
note of your life.

I open the window,
slide you onto a book
cover, and drop you
to the ground below.

Dear Bee, I see you
down there—a black
and yellow question
mark in the snow.

What happens next?
What happens next?
What happens next?
What happens next?

Dear Bee, the earth
will now reclaim you
in the same way it'll
someday reclaim me.