A Garden of A Sort

My garden was of air.
Do not come so near.
The children cannot hear
the arrival of the fear.

You are a bee, you sting.
I never learned to sing.
The children cannot flee
the stinging of the bee.

My garden was of air.
Yet I could not leave.
The children cannot bear
the adulthood of grief.

I never named this thing.
I never learned to sing.
The children cannot tell
their garden is a hell.