The Crucible of Honey

The many divinations of sweetness
are devised in the inner sanctums and rituals,
the cataclysmic cathartic catalyst of bees
sure it sounds funny, but they’re
funny creatures, their dance and alchemy
a playful mystery, silly with pollen
enzymes ready, insignia poised
chest forward wings back
fluttering around like you somehow
know what you are doing
amidst one singular destiny:
yellow ore, not excavating
but inscribing scripture in the ether,
no panning for gold, but making
gooey lush amber in their little furry
suits. Tiny floating baubles, igniting
some slight thankful sap, might as well
be your grandmothers favorite chair
placid striped and inviting;
all that shimmers once
and never again, gracefully silent;
their solemn goal, to die buzzing,
and have all of their work
slurped up and eaten,
how sweet it is
to give what you can never
receive.