An unconvinced argument on how to mourn.

Frozen bees fall gently to the water,
romantic piano chords
turning slowly on the surface;
more performance art
with plans for education
and redemption.

Pretty water when a finger stirs
but then it needs cleaning
of the shreds of wing,
ligaments of drama,
and surely it's easier
if we build a love of nature.

Stroll away,
love what nature made,
the strong and the strident;
we could live there
in ringing ways,
live a little harmony
with what we believed.

What would bees give us?
Martyred bees with delusions of grandeur.
An echo
or gifts?