The bees have memorized my face.
They gracefully recognize my place
in the garden, stretching and bending low
to deadhead and weed the beds
of the flowers we grow,
that they may feast on nectar so sweet.
Dusted by pollen which flavors our honey,
the bees and I manufacture joy and delight
that melts on the tongue and lights the eye.
Laborers together, in our garden, the bees and I.
annarino writes 