The hive is warm – even after this first frost.
A bee-space between each honeyed-comb ensures such warmth.
They swarm, buzz about the Queen, unseen, locked in her chamber.
My hands reach deep within,
draw two handfulls of yelow black docile bees, as if asleep.
Today I have no smoker; no curling blue puffs,
no bridal white netting; I am unprotected, bare-handed –
still, I am not stung
Instead, they swarm about the root of the white rose bush you gave.
A sweet offering beneath the ceiling of a grey-frost sky.