Late Summer

The worker bee is sweet to me,
diligent in her stealth.
Her gratitude is plain to see
as she works to gather wealth.

With tattered wings she carries on
in loyalty prodigious.
I watch her working ‘cross the lawn,
with intensity almost religious.

Late flowers attract a summer sound;
a buzzing so symphonious.
More than just noise, it is profound,
sweet bee voices, euphonious.

And when the nectar’s gathered in,
since ever days of olden;
they concentrate as if to spin
it into honey golden.

©p.johnson. Aug.2015IMG_0304