Admire the geometry of bees: the hexagonal chambers
built for brood and storage of their liquid-gold labors.
There’s symmetry in the four wings, the eyes and ocelli,
the harvesting legs with press, brush, and auricle.
Stand silently in an orchard. It hums.
Supervised by the sun, striped bodies
gather from blossoms scenting the air.
They carry the lode to their hive’s thrum.
Have you seen the wonder of a swarm?
A bee-tornado condenses on a branch hung.
I have heard it said that you can thrust your arm
into the midst of a bee-ball and not be stung.
Give pause before every meal. Consider the hue
spread across your bee-pollinated plate:
orange oranges, apple red and blueberries to sate,
plus the grain-fed hog sliced up for barbecue.
Sister-workers rotate through jobs of the hive:
nannies tend the larval brood, housekeepers clean,
scouts dance, guards defend. When frost ends the last glean;
the females hunker with their hoard to stay alive.
Poem by Deborah (Bee) Dickerson
Deborah Dickerson writes letters to friends frequently and poems occasionally.