Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home

Which they’re putting together again for dear life, knowing nothing

Of the heart beating under their floorboards, besieged here, seeking

A life of its own.  All day their brisk shadows zigzag and flicker



Along a whitewashed gable, trafficking in and out of a hair-crack

Under wooden eaves, where they make a life for themselves that knows

No let-up through hours of exploration and return, their thighs golden

With pollen, their multitudinous eyes stapled to a single purpose:



To make winter safe for their likes, stack-packing the queen’s chambers

With sweetness.  Later, listen: one warm humming note, their night music.