The Bees

                             Honey flowing slowly from scattered stands,
                             the sweetness of the land dried by death’s hand.
                             Bitter lemon into the warm water,
                             the nectar of the bees … missing the sweet.
                             Seconds of minutes, minutes of hours
                             sour as the hours turned into days.
.
                             Days become nights- nights turning to mourning
                             greeting every sunrise with a tart sting.
                             And the bee that flowed with precious honey
                             buzzed the deadly virus destroying life.
                             A body from the hive fell through the sky
                             and another bee flew to a new land.

                             The golden blood of life placed on a shelf,
                             amber bottles of what was left behind.
                             The hot tea turned cold and the cream curdled
                             without the sweetness to complete the sip. 
                             Flowers died in the Garden of No Hope
                             without the bee to pollinate new life.

                             Little bottles of precious memories
                             sit untouched in golden hue safe from view.
                             The honey within preserved by nature
                             will not spoil- fresh and sweet a thousand years.
                             The fleeing bee left stinging times behind,
                             but memories flow of that which was sweet.