Telling the Bees

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Here is the place; right over the hill 
   Runs the path I took; 
You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
   And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 
There is the house, with the gate red-barred, 
   And the poplars tall; 
And the barn’s brown length, and the cattle-yard, 
   And the white horns tossing above the wall. 
There are the beehives ranged in the sun; 
   And down by the brink 
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o’errun, 
   Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 
   Heavy and slow; 
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, 
   And the same brook sings of a year ago. 
I can see it all now,—the slantwise rain 
   Of light through the leaves, 
The sundown’s blaze on her window-pane, 
   The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 
Just the same as a month before,— 
   The house and the trees, 
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door,— 
   Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 
Before them, under the garden wall, 
   Forward and back, 
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, 
   Draping each hive with a shred of black. 
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun 
   Had the chill of snow; 
For I knew she was telling the bees of one 
   Gone on the journey we all must go! 
~John Greenleaf Whittier from “Telling the Bees”
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An old Celtic tradition necessitates sharing any news from the household with the local bee hives, whether cheery like a new birth or a wedding celebration or sad like a family death.  This ensures the hives’ well-being and continued connection to home and farm – the bees are kept in the loop, so to speak, so they stay at home, not swarm and move on to a more hospitable place.
Good news seems always easy to share; we tend to keep bad news to ourselves so this tradition helps remind us that what affects one of us, affects us all.
These days, with instant news at our fingertips at any moment, bad news is constantly bombarding us. Like the bees in the hives of the field, we want to flee from it and find a more hospitable home.
I do hope the Beekeeper comes personally to say:
“Here is what has happened. All will be okay. We will navigate this life together.”
O gentle bees, I have come to say
That grandfather fell to sleep to-day.
And we know by the smile on grandfather’s face.
He has found his dear one’s biding place.
So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low.
As over the honey-fields you sweep,—
To the trees a-bloom and the flowers a-blow
Sing of grandfather fast asleep;
And ever beneath these orchard trees
Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.
~Eugene Field from “Telling the Bees”
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Should Have Been Mine

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Outside the house the wind is howling
and the trees are creaking horribly.
This is an old story
with its old beginning,
as I lay me down to sleep.
But when I wake up, sunlight
has taken over the room.
You have already made the coffee
and the radio brings us music
from a confident age. In the paper
bad news is set in distant places.
Whatever was bound to happen
in my story did not happen.
But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.
Perhaps a name was changed.
A small mistake. Perhaps
a woman I do not know
is facing the day with the heavy heart
that, by all rights, should have been mine.
~Lisel Mueller “In November”

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