Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home br Which they're putting together again for dear life, knowing nothing br Of the heart beating under their floorboards, besieged here, seeking br A life of its own. All day their brisk shadows zigzag and flicker br br Along a whitewashed gable, trafficking in and out of a hair-crack br Under wooden eaves, where they make a life for themselves that knows br No let-up through hours of exploration and return, their thighs golden br With pollen, their multitudinous eyes stapled to a single purpose: br br To make winter safe for their likes, stack-packing the queen's chambers br With sweetness. Later, listen: one warm humming note, their night music.