I knew a man who called himself
a honeybee—
wandering through gardens,
forests, fields of bloom.
Each blossom he touched,
he drank its nectar,
left a dusting of gold,
and drifted away
to the next promise of sweetness.
Years passed in this endless flight,
without consequence,
while the flowers stood silent—
some swelling into fruit,
others fading into dust.
Then one day he met
a Venus flytrap,
its green jaws gleaming,
its lure irresistible.
He bent to sip,
and the plant closed in—
a sudden silence,
a final hunger.
That was the end of my friend,
the bee who never learned
which blossoms
were meant to be left untouched.
