The garden was ready, the fruit trees in bloom
Everyone dressed in their finest costume.
Each prepared to become a giver, a donor
All waiting impatiently for the guests of honour.
The sun was shining and the day was warm
No clouds in the sky forecasting a storm.
Yet, no one was coming, the garden was strangely still
“Have they forgotten us, and went instead, up the lilac hill?”
“Were the pesticides what killed them? Was it the frost?
Aren't they coming or are they merely lost?”
The veggies whispered in a chorus of uneasy voices
For who would pollinate them? Were there other choices?
The flowers lamented, preparing their mourning attire
For what could be worse, except, maybe, a fire?
Suddenly, a distant buzz was heard and everyone pricked up their ears:
“The bees are coming! Hurray!” they cheered, “the golden swarm appears!”