In slumber rest the glossy wings are still
when tiny buzzing yields to winter's cruel chill
and fills with dreams of feasts of flowers
while sleeping and slipping away the frozen hours
The revels of dewy petaled morning glories
stream through the golden striped pollen stories
to tip and sip of the sticky pistil chalice
while humbly abiding in the silky floral palace
The warmth of these, the faded golden days
preserve the dormant hope under thick icy glaze
when the sun slowly thaws and melts away from these
it is simple to recall the time spent when we were bees
