His name is Bee.
Who named him this
Was genius,
For he simply IS.

He knows no hour,
No day, nor year;
Quite free of time,
He’s simply HERE.

Once, of course,
He had not been,
And soon
He will not bee again,

But never dwells
On empty things.
He’s HERE and NOW,
And he has WINGS!

No quiet being,
He’s all abuzz.
He not just IS,
He also DOES.

To do and be;
To bee and do,
Beeing is
Forever new.

He has no time
To sleep nor eat.
For drink, he downs
His nectar neat,

And gathers sweetness
To the hive
That bee and bees and
Beeing thrive.

No grave beneath
Nor god above him;
Bluebells and daffodils
To love him,

No grave below,
Nor god above,
Just Being, Flowers,
Wings, and Love.

We THINK; therefore,
We think we’re smart,
Forgetting TO BE for

Just to learn that
Thought’s a sham,
Too late to say...
As bee... I AM.

Befraught with thought
And never free,
How I wish that
I could bee!