busy as a bee

She doesn't buzz, but she is that busy,
 floating from flower to flower
collecting nectar she needs to make honey,
if she has wings, I can't see them,
flapping too fast for any eye to catch,
a wisp in the twilight we believe we see
but we can't be certain of, 
a spirit we think we might touch,
but can't lay a finger on,
feeling a kiss of air against a cheek
before she moves on,
there are too many flowers to visit
and too little time in this short life she lives,
a need to taste each before she ceases
to taste at all, sad at the flowers
that wither behind her, glad at those
new buds springing up ahead,
this endless life of movement 
when life is movement and to cease
is to cease to exist, she keeps on moving
because she must and we must accept
the fact or lose vision of who and what she is,
this need to accept her for what she is
ad what she does without regret
if not without envy and wish we could
hold her don and own her
when nobody can.