THE HEAVEN OF BEES
Their dance there denotes nothing
of geometry, angle, distance, sunlight, flower,
though sometimes it might recall to one or another
one sweet apple blossom, a certain patch of clover.
The spirals, wiggles, twists and turns are nothing
but dance, made possible by a lifetime's practice
gathering nectar, bearing it across
blank pages of sky, and telling each other.
Bruce Tindall
Published in
Crucible