The bees fly crooked on fermented honey,
trace lopsided headings, drunk as lords—
and somewhere, Bacchus tips his cup and finds it funny
that even insects stumble when the gods get bored.
The deer weave homeward through the dusk,
gorged on windfall apples gone to wine.
You frown. They grin. The forest reeks of musk
and mischief—randomness by design.
But here's the gift: nothing goes to plan.
The grapes split open, yeast blooms wild,
the blueprint smudges when the gods began
to laugh—and poured too much, and smiled.
So let the world go wobbling off its axis, friend:
the straightest path was never heaven's end.