By RAHN ADAMS
As of this morning, / the bees were still buzzing / in one of our hives / like a well-built Belvedere.
On my knees, I pressed / my ear to the box / and heard the happy thrum / of a thousand little lives,
Clustered against the cold, / generating heat / to protect that one life / at the center of their being.
Why the other hive died / we probably won’t know. / Too much stress / and too spread out, we guess.
We should have robbed it — / taken all of the gold / to make them work / harder for their precious honey.