-This poem reflects on bees at midday as the living pulse of summer, where heat, bloom, and quiet labor gather into one steady hum.
They move through clover, bloom, and thyme,
small engines in the heated air,
their gold and black made bright by sun,
their labor quick among the leaves.
The garden hums around their path,
each flower opening into use,
and every drifting summer scent,
finds meaning in their patient work.
No stillness lives in light like this,
the hour is warm with wing and dust,
a living sound above the rows,
where sweetness turns to living need.
To stand and hear that woven hum,
is to feel summer close at hand,
not only in its fruit and shade,
but in the busy heart of bloom.