A type of magic’s what we see,
A flower, a plant, a bush, a tree,
All would be gone, their life cut short
Without the gift the bee has brought.
Returning then, the bee unpacks
The sticky sweetness and the wax,
More than enough to fill the need
Of every Queen there is to feed.
But this is only just the start,
Time now for some beekeeping art;
The final act on which we thrive,
The honey’s gathered from the hive.