What do the bees do in the hive?
Do they feel safe, warm, comforted by the humming of thousands?
Do they miss home when they’re out among the clover,
wings dusted with golden errands?
Do they swap stories about the brightest wildflower—
or the one that smelled like childhood, or the bloom in which they fell in love?
Do they dance a little more, just to be seen?
Do they gossip about the queen
or speak of her with reverence, like a myth,
or not at all?
Do they know that the hexagon is nature’s strongest shape?
Or do they just keep building,
believing in the pattern because it holds?
Do they take pride in the taste of their honey,
or is the sweetness just a byproduct of survival?
Do some bees feel like imposters,
like they slipped in unnoticed and must pretend to know the tune?
Do they ache with effort,
and envy the drones who never leave the hive?
Do they groom each other—
not just to stay clean,
but because touch means you belong?
Do they know why they’re working?
Do they wonder if it matters?
Do they dream of flying past the edge of the field?
Do they listen for the silence between wingbeats?Do they long for the meadow, wild and alone,
more than the hum of the hive they call home?
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