Sylvia

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?
(Sylvia Plath, Stings)




The beehive is quiet.
Counterintuitive--you'd
think the thrum and hum
would overwhelm
but each hexagon
has become a realm
of immaculate silence.
The queen lies sleeping,
her drones at her feet,
workers gone off to sip honey
in the hive of the consort.
In the distance a nightingale sings.
The queen almost stirs,
sinks back into lethargy;
sinks back into the counterintuitive quiet
of the hive.

(Image: Maggie Taylor, Girl in a Bee Dress)