Frente Frio
December 13, 2010
Seventeen north of the equator
My bones creak like cubes in a plastic tray.
At our gate guardian bees abandoned
the tumbling pink display, a faded still-frame.
Nectar froze. Or froze perhaps their gilded fur.
Cold dimmed their wings. No buzz-line.
Suddenly I really fear: without our bees
Who will keep the thieves away?
2010 - present
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