One evening while wandering
I came upon dozens of insouciant bumblebees
recumbent in their Elysium,
each holding to a pink-and-white flower,
drunkenly sipping the dregs of its nectar,
heedless of passersby.
Each stem supported one bee
and it was as if they dined there,
each solitary despite their companions,
so lost in their own ecstasy
they forgot to commune.
I had never seen so many bumblebees
in one place, or so tranquil.
I wondered what secrets the bees know
about happiness, about peace,
about an unrushed existence,
just taking time to get their fill
of whatever it is that delights their senses,
to feel with each tiny hair
the shivery deliciousness of petals
brushing against them in the breeze
and soft buds beneath their ancient coal-black feet–
and I, too, wanted to stay
and taste and recline unbothered
while the world moved on.