A few branches have been broken
and laid gently in the wicker basket.
The air is thick and sweet,

that of a mortuary parlor.
Then the bees come,

more than you'd ever expect,
whirring from sprig to sprig
with such meticulous and random

urgency you might think
they understand each blossom

begins to die upon its opening
which has been hurried along
by your own desire.

To upset the basket now
would only bring pain, nothing

like a dose of venom to mother beauty.
The bees are everywhere
and keep coming, wedged tight

against each other to scoop up the nectar
they are so mad for.

And a swarm takes shape
right before your disbelieving eyes.
Allow it whatever you have

brought inside. It should leave
someday, sometime soon probably.

You don't dare move.
     Don't breathe.