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?