I read a story today; more a headline, really:

I read a story today; more a headline, really:
Wild Bees And The Flowers They Pollinate Disappearing Together.
While a study in Britain, the word may spread
toward the cities, the streets, the neighbor’s
Of the colonies, toward the parks, where the last
wild flowers spring to be bladed by
the last of the green grass let roam free, alone
with the nutrients of a soiled Earth, baked
by the Sun, more-less the hands of a chef;
so tolerant, they, these petallers, fal’n on
grass, on ground, free from such worries as
pestilence and pesticides, be it by
bite or might of spite for the na’tral; the
hold of the ship brought cries of mutiny,
the unseen immigrants, left to end where they are;
But all brings match of Bee from Park, Tag,
a game of Care, of Worry-Not, but I do.