after the bees

prompted by the thought of tiny drones pollinating flowering plants: Writer's Cramp entry.

through a shattered mirror
I find tomorrow—
the grass dead
no dandelions
choke the pauses between the sidewalk.
gardens filled with
melted, shining
varieties of rock.

I search for growing things—
nothing lives,
empty houses waver before my eyes
past clouds of heat.
the cockroaches
repudiated the earth,
and the bees are dead.

a distant buzzing creeps
louder, closer.
a cloud of helicopters
tiny enough to land
on my finger tip
surround me—
searching to relieve their
seed burden.
they have no purpose.
the flowers are gone

they reach out tiny arms
like feather dusters
to pollinate the only life left.
but the touch of them
sends me back,
the mirror reforms—
yesterday returns
and I itch of pollen.

line count: 33