A Year of Poems – Day 345

The bees sip the last dregs of spring flowers
aged through the long summer to be drunk now
at the queen’s last revel before the snow.
No thoughts only the dance from their bowers,
caught in the air as the world takes its breath
before the vigil starts and we all wait
with lungs held against the cold morbid press,
a small ball, buzzing soft against our fate.
Hope is a ball of bees recalling joy
As it spun once – full-ripened leaves, dancers,
the taste of honey – these are not answers
to the white silence. They will seem as toys
when ice forms on the wrong side of our glass.
We clutch them as we wait for death to pass.


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