616. IT

IT
It wasn't you. Alone.
That pear tree, which had stretched
and then withered in your yard, was once
a magnet for bees. Of every stripe. They'd
linger and buzz and alight, dripping the nectar
of a sweet pear juice. The sticky stuff fell
to the ground. It glistened in the sun -
that same sun which had somehow
ruined Icarus. Crashing wax wings,
wildly infused, and suffering.
Witnessing the crash, like
an old Bruegel painting;
a scene no one notices.