honeycomb

The ethics of bees

Which remain crying

In desperation

Their civility lacks reflection

How worthwhile is their punctuality in

A Nature great

For its forgotten adherence to chaos

Having lost not one of those to love

Their suspension, an antiquity

Lacking a pride that yearns for the uncommon

Buried beneath a shrugged weight of winds

Eyes rest for a long while

But hiding commits you to the custody of angels

For bees cannot blush with the spirit’s light