Consider the bees. They toil lots,
And, boy, they spin from fleur to fleur,
Pollinations as they were,
Floribunding the hot spots,
While I watch here, unverbed, unnouned,
Except for remembering what I hear,
A taste of honey growing near
And sweat. It is an elder sound,
The sound of since, not without sting.
The bees head home. Say, come again,
And be what you have always been,
Sweetness of bloom a living thing.
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