The bees know;

fly to the brightest shades of magenta

if the grass is green.

Swarm to the fountains of fuchsia,

if the sky behind is blue,

because the bees know

it’s in the contrast.

They see the patterns,

venations like a roadmap

to their sweet nectar prize.

But I wonder, though they see

the signs, and they know

where they should go,

they are distracted

by the juxtaposition.

Color against color,

Sparkle above shine,

pleasure before duty.

They frolic obligations,

find excuses so bright

they match the sun—

I believe the...

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