The Bumblebee

"It's late in the year," the bumblebee said,

"The time when most of the migrants have fled,

The time when summerfruits start to rot,

And I'd like to find a soft, sweet spot--

A lantana blossom or marigold,

Nothing too fancy, nothing too bold--

On which to rest my fuzzy head

And nap until I fall off, totally dead.

Ever since birth I've been buzzing about,

Flower to flower, never a doubt

Concerning my purpose--I was here, I was there;

I made my rounds without a care.

But my wings are worn, my antennae are bent,

And, this being autumn, the nectar is spent.

In the past I've crawled in a hole till spring,

But age is a cruel, enfeebling thing,

And I don't think I'd last one more cast-iron winter

With the frost-crystals stabbing me, splinter by splinter.

No, better to shiver it out on an aster;

With luck, death will come that much faster."