Spike is Best

Fireworks of bees and other buzzers
make festivity of flowers;
kindle-risen, the herbs in brooms
ring a concerted much ado
calling the tribes down leagues of air
to conviviate and make the nectar's
celestial dance - orbital gathering
the sap proffered through
inconspicuous minaret blooms.
To the thyme, oregano and hyssop,
peppermint, borage, Oswego tea:
airborne jousts jar the filaments,
mercy of flights upon the pollen sea;
sumo bumblebee with his stimen drop
smashbreeds opiate from prior terms,
gratuity and essence, ends and means,
as flippant as grass, as vital as earthworms.
Essential play and playful essence
work in the day-strong, one bow-shot of
duty's what's-at-hand and windy hurry:
if sun climbs, the nectar climbs; the mind
is not a clockwork box, repository
data receptor, stacking library.
But like celled honeycomb, mind is roomed
with wax time-capsules later oozed
with the unexpiring transpiration
of the seasonal unfolding, sun and moon,
cloud and rain: never is it information;
bare knowledge is nothing but deviation,
certain colony collapse disorder
when the clean and well-kept waxen borders
remain unsticked, ungummed, unhoneyed
ossuaries, without even funeral rite
for there is no dead to grieve, no body,
no harvester's decapping knife
to procure the flow, the golden flow,
content fraught, for winter feeding. All is grace that grows.
You can know something without knowing that you know.