The bees and I sometimes gossip
as they tumble from flower to flower
and I pluck weeds like nasal hairs
from winter’s sleeping garden
the bees believe in sharing their views
like honey for the benefit of all.

The bees beseech me to tarry,
to disregard the sting in their tale –
ignore how a buzz can linger
turn itself into something new;
there are no butterflies in my garden
I only see the caterpillars beneath.