Funeral of a Bumblebee

I found a bumblebee, who’d died:
Its head was bowed, its torso curled,
It lay, tipped over to one side
Here at the coda of the world.

Its black wings smooth as polished oars
Were poised mid-stroke. An empty tower
Of silence droned, as loud as snores
That drowsed their way from flower to flower.

Its sable fur was trimmed with gold,
Its hands were folded to its chest.
Let poppies close now, unconsoled,
And six ants bear it to its rest.