July 2: A Tale of Honey

A poet sees the flower as a sign
Of transience, and beauty that will fade.
But to a plant, a blossom’s fair design
Ensures its pollinators will be staid.

And pollinators, heedless of the part
They play in reproduction, blindly seek
To take their tithe of sweetness and depart;
No poetry the process would bespeak,

Unless one thinks of honey, and the bees
Who perishable nectar do devour,
And metamorphose it with seeming ease
To that which never spoils- whence came this power

To change mortality to perpetuity?
An evolutionary superfluity?

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