Deeply mysterious and sacred is the work of bees,
trafficking between ethereal and fixed abodes,
between the vaulted treasury and plundered rose;
the queen, a Cleopatra of the golden hoard,
awaiting the transcendent ecstasy of nuptial flight,
while all her vassals labour in the fields of lavender and white
in dual roles, in thrall to forces greater than they know,
couriers of precious dust from soul to fragrant soul,
dreamers in the garden, who ensure tomorrow will unfold,
whose gauze wings carry paradisal codes.
I dreamed last night that we were bees,
agents of strange destinies, cradled in the heart
of the same rose, in heavenly repose…