The days are drawing down toward autumn's chill
but light remembers still its summer kiss
and flaunts approaching winter with gold spill
through leaves yet green as spring's elated bliss.
Waiting to depart, the swarms of patient bees
delight the keeper with their sated hymns.
Linked leg to bristled back, they sway in trees
oblivious to mankind's honeyed whims.
Now gather courage for what lies ahead -
as bees their fortitude for questing flight -
by charity in what is warmly said
against the coming of the frigid night.
For hatred's trump will be our sure downfall -
like bees we'll live as one, or not at all.
September 23, 2001
Thinking About Thoreau
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