Poem for a bee.

There was a bee in my car. I had tried to direct him out. He only got so far and desperately tried to claw his way through the glass in vain. My survival instinct upon seeing his futility I decided to squash him but he flew back. This is my estimation of human limitation. We are all bees who must trust our corner more than our chaufer. As I wrote this I was changing my oil. I got up and just in time warned him about the bee but it seemed the bee had already flown away. Poetry does and is a perfect clue to being good and human. But my instinct and awareness was only active because i was already good. But in an interesting manner i wouldn't have checked if I hadnt been writing. Writing is real. The momentary lessons really aren't worth that much even as beauty and insight scroll constantly around me in living experience. One moment of awareness brings me to now to be the person i am is what reading and writing is a practice for me.