Bees etch paths in
air
from hive to tulip
tree
and back to hive
again.
I’ve watched them go
and come,
their flights, like
cursive scripts,
never straight but
onward.
If a hive has myriad
bees
think of the traces
they leave,
the lines they scratch
in air,
each recorded, drop
by drop,
in soft wax tablets
with stylus tongues.
1 comment:
beautiful poem about something as seemingly simple yet complex as bees
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