This actually happened in one of my grade eleven college-bound classes one balmy fall day when my portable door was open, and in flew this bee. We had just that moment finished discussing the possibility of superior beastie intelligence, when this, what’s described in the poem, occurred. When the bee departed, I asked my students what the nuzzle at my wrist was all about. Surely it was a kiss! I still hear the gaffaws for what I said.

Apiarist I did not know I was,
keeper of bees
honey-makers extraordinaire,
for in the door
one flew, forceful
and direct right toward
a student who didn’t
like its noise.
“Get out of here.” he swatted,
swished with his ruler;
“Take that And that.”
It buzzed about
ignoring his threats
and headed for the
back of the room.
“Settle down,” I said,
“relax. Wish the beastie
well.”
“It’s a bee. Where’ s the spray?”
“All we have to do is
wish it well, tell it
we would help, and
point direction
to the door.”
That was all,
a huge decree
given what we knew.
But this is what I said:
“Come here, over here,
this way to the door.”
to the bee, with what I
must admit a skeptic’s
voice.
“Over here.” as warmly
as I could.
Then, as it entered,
forceful and direct,
it flew to me,
nuzzled at my wrist
and darted out
the door, gone.
It left behind
a room
of open mouths,
and knowledge
as stupendous as it was
that humans can
communicate with bees.

September 30, 1997

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