Type A Honey
I am living in a bee’s cave without work,
The hive is a productive one.
Perhaps I should provide a chronicle of the hives events,
The other bees don’t seem to mind,
That I do not make honey.
Sometimes I feel as though I am living in slow motion,
Or rather that I stop and start so many times.
I cannot dance as fast as drones,
Their dance is complex and symbolic,
In slow motion you can see this even more clearly.
It seems like a lot of work,
In order to make honey.
I leave the cave–surprised to see,
The meadow is still flowering,
The world is wide without the walls–yet not as intricate.
The beekeeper wears his suit,
I give him my diary and he asks for honey.