Don't tell bees about death,
they are tired of learning
about the losses of others, weary
of the mythology of love.
And my veins do not flow with honey,
even in the sweeter months of Spring,
bruised and raised on March winds.
Even when columbine opens
its bells of violet, dark nightcaps
with spurs of nectar; cupped temptations
for monkish drones, blood brothers
of a swarm, in reveries
of purpose and need.
It makes me wonder
what a solitary bee dreams of,
in cells cut into reed stems;
in partitions of sleep and refuge,
its only urge to breed.
The work of life is in a colony -
life is nothing if not work, and
it is old, this labour of man and bee,
but I do not know
how many flowers a hive can hold.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Honey_Please.jpg