The bees are back to harvest the fruit of the flower, to pick through Jupiter’s beard and return to their angular rooms.

And when they do, for that brief space between days, what’s it like in the hive with each in their own hexagon?

Is each room the same, like a Holiday Inn?

I picture them sparse, for they don’t have time to dwell. Perhaps just a night stand beside a matchbox bed, a honey-fueled lamp with a shade, and in the pattern of the shade an array of flowers to remind them of their cause.

It’s like this you see, because we combine, or we confuse, what we love with what we do for work.

And it’s that way, for we must.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: poem