The greatest lie is about the stinger:
They do. Damn, they do, and it hurts when they do.
But first, they fly with a happy buzz.
They swoop and swim through the air.
They hide in the nectary spots,
leap forth again into the sunlight
and sing the song of wings and wisps
of clouds.

The truth is about the gold and the black,
the colors of sunlight and shadow
that define them. In the darkness they do not
exist. In the light, they are the joy of a passive
passing through a pasture, or along a garden’s edge.

In the twilight, gold is not gold, and black is not black
and they are the perhaps that might be there, unknown.

The question that hangs between the truth and the lie
is not a bumblebee or sunshine or darkness. It is the simple why
of love. The aching perfection of a moment of sunshine
before that cloud can become a shadow. Before the darkness
can be imagined there amongst those flowers and that color
and that implied threat of stinging pain.

Alleluia Bumblebee, God hears your prayers loudest of all.