It is a poisonous pollen that is
In the air, like sin, clear, in lieu
Of us atoning. Bees barely buzz
As the wind drips virulent nectar
That clots in our cells. Hives
That once thrived have gone
Silent, we hope only dormant,
But it is too early to know what
Damage has been done. We
Thought it can’t happen here,
Yet here it is. What is usually
Blooming is not, the unusual
Becoming norm. Bees and we
Brought to our knees.

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