You make good use of the pitchfork and hoe,
ruffle your fingers through the buzzing hive;
I wonder at it, for I would never know
how best to plow, or keep the bees alive.
Real life unfurls itself beneath your hand,
while I putter—confused, distractable.
With care you lard the lean, infertile land;
I rage and quake, my heart intractable.
Nature disposed us differently to life
and rules us harshly from her gilded throne;
I hope despite all my heartache and strife,
you’ll find good use for the love I’ve sown.

Bees are busy; the dark soils decompose;
not to feed us, your crops rise up in rows.