Who Do You Think I Am
By John Herlihy

An enormous hand reached down to inspect the hive;
There was tenderness in the touch and it smelt alive.
A hand so big it must be attached to much much more,
A presence that extended from Heaven’s sky to Earth’s floor.

The bees worked the hive without knowing the origin of the hallowed presence;
Ever industrious to their tasks at hand, they worked with their limited senses.
Of the mighty universe out there that reached down to them beyond the stars;
We believe what we see with our eyes, they thought, that much is still ours.

Who do you think I am? The benevolent presence whispered in their ears.
Was that a whisper, a touch, a nudge to the heart they felt over the years?
The bees didn’t know what to make of it, the mystery often felt hollow;
Something is out there, something isn’t. What’s left but incertitude and sorrow.

For all their buzzing and industry, the question continued to haunt the bees.
They know they fly on the wings of the wind that roams invisible in the trees;
But no one around can definitively account for the sense of mysterious presence,
That can be experienced in everything they see right down to their very essence.

Thunder sounds and lightning flashes; while the clouds float imperiously in the sky;
You would think the world had limits when you gazed upon daylight blue on high.
But no, even the bees knew the darkness of night reached down from its pinnacle;
Nightly, the world expanded beyond the horizon inspiring some bees to be cynical.

This is all there is, they buzzed, infinite blue by day and infinite black all night long.
We bees need not worry ourselves about it; our wings sing their own blessed song.
The rest of the hive bowed their heads and went on their business without a sound.
We know who You are without seeing You, they buzzed, gathering honey all around.