The bees come and go from their white
four-by-four home
built on this farm where I’ve come
to escape the city’s toil
settle into eternity and till the soil.

Till the soil and write down the bees’ secrets
in a beekeeper’s diary:
how they come and go from this apiary
working without revile
because the work must be done for survival.

Done for survival of the flowers too
waiting patiently
because pollination never came belatedly:
these flowers always knew
the bees would arrive just like the dew.

Like the dew, a secret gently upon me fell:
fly like the bees
open like the rose that never sees
its red petals fall
nor the long winter rushing in to consume it all.

©Scott Dewing