A bee returning to the hive is nothing
like a man gone out and coming home.
The friends with whom he shared wheat rusks
and sported games and métier testing feats
were yanked mid-breath by acts of Fates.
The paths his goats ground to dust are overgrown.
The insect mars with deeds and signs the air
to lead his kind to hive or lode.
For man, a shack (so low?), Argos his dog,
and with luck, the charred widow from next door
keeper of the swaddling acts that made the place.
These he can hope for.
