Poem - Little Bee: So Out Of Place

This is a poem inspired by a little bee.

A whimsical tale of preparing to move house, to leave a place that doesn't feel like home. An exploration of the seasons of life, things beyond our control, and the changes we can and do choose to make.

Transcript

This is a poem inspired by a tiny life I couldn't save. It's called, Little Bee, So Out of Place. I feel so out of place here. But stay too long. We're moving. I just don't get the people here. Their codes. Cold, To me. Well, It is winter. The house is up for sale. I am decluttering with a capital D. Everything must go. But I save a couple of flower pots to make the house look inviting. The smell of fresh bread. Can't take that box today. But flowers, Yes. There's a little shop. The lady smiles and bustles among her candles and foliage. I show her my pots. And she doesn't usually sell just the plants. But for me, She unbeds the bulbs from expensive pots she'd just prepared and replaces them in the containers I brought along. Cheap. A smile is free and exercises facial muscles. Sun bright, Cheerful. Kindness costs nothing. I wish there were more like my flower lady in this place that never really felt like home. Once home, Never felt like it. I place yellow and white primroses outside my front door. Not mine for much longer. To entice potential buyers. To make it feel like home. Back to decluttering. The removal of things. Disposal of the useless from my home. On occasion, It felt like it. Past the flowerpot. Sun bright yellow. To the car. To the recycling centre. Or the donation station. A little bee finds my flowers. So out of place. It's cold. Still winter. Throughout the day. My multiple journeys. I pass the little bee. So out of place. On the sun bright yellow petals. In the cold. Sometimes it changes position. A bee hair. But not enough. I begin to worry. It stays too long. I gently place a tiny drop of watered down honey on a petal within reaching distance. It moves. A hair. A bee hair. But perhaps it isn't thirsty. Not dehydrated. But cold. Doesn't belong here. I feel helpless. But continue my day. See a little shift. But it's growing weaker. Until I pass it once more. And it's no longer alive. A tiny carcass of a beautiful bee. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I didn't know how. Perhaps your final hours were peaceful. On the yellow flower. Sun bright yet. So out of place. It's not too late to save myself.