As you stir on my porch
claimed as your workplace,
Mr. Carpenter Bee, I study you.
I hear your motorized whir and
am reminded of distant sounds from
Daddy’s table saw in his workshop.
Although he was man and you
are bee, you, two, are much alike.
You both love working with wood.
Often in early spring, just like you,
I recall he, too, would stir around
with specific plans for day’s doings.
Your work ethics are quite similar.
He’d claim his plan for creating
wooden creations–a child’s toy,
a squirrel feeder, a picnic table.
You’re thrilled to drill your tunnels.
Wood spitting delights both of you.
His wood shavings would trail from
his loud table saw. Yours rain from a
certain hole in my front porch swing.
Both of you, workers, leave trackings.
Your work’s evidence sits in mounds on porch slats.
His were scatterings on a workshop’s floor.
Sometimes sawdust would travel
on his shoe to Momma’s kitchen.
Steadily you give time to your tasks.
You noisily drill into my swing.
His table saw would whine and scream.
You, the bee, and he, the man,
are precise planners content not
to lag, content not to tag a day to nothingness.
No, not you two, conscientious workers.