they ply the hive—circling,
working—a phrizz of amber,
and healing loosed via wings
as the call to be golden
crescendos. Their gilt arpeggios
flag, come fall. “Be
cold,” the wind whispers
all winter. Months without foxglove
and the nodding cosmos
narrow to shivers. Workers know this:
honey sustains the great hum. Long
live the huddle, sisters
changing places, honing
hunger. Then the skin to silk,
brush-foot news: the pregnant
dust, with its little sails.
Poem by Laurie Klein
Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens, and Bodies of Water, Bodies of Flesh. She lives in the Inland Northwest. She blogs monthly at lauriekleinscribe.com