when, young man brave

[joel]

When, young man brave, I played on my
imagination’s whims,
I captured bees in pickle jars
from bushes’ flowered limbs;

I stalked azalea lovers for
my masculinity—
and never once my joy was stung
in hand or dignity—

and reveled in my prowess’ skill.
What later changed in me
that, too ashamed for wild-and-tame,
I separate left them be?

My joy was never in the hunt—
Red Clover tasted sweet;
and had I slain my insect wards
what clover would I eat?

My joy was in the bees’ release,
its simple harmony
as in their throngs they flew away
and peaceful left me be

as if it were a pledge between
our shared estate that play
our interaction’d solely be.
I changed along the way

and somehow pride deformed contrived
true masculinity
is sting’s avoidance not, but slay-
ing possibility.