A Fitting Rest Stop for A Queen…

I’m allergic to bees. Or rather not to bees, but to bee stings.

I wasn’t always.

As a child I used to capture bees briefly in my hands, then let them go.

I was never stung.

Not once.

Which says something about bees.

A succession of stings came later.

Because I ran barefoot through grass and clover.

Because what felt like a spit wad landing on my head during class, wasn’t.

Because I crouched down while gardening, crushing a bee between my calf and thigh.

O clumsy human.

O harbinger bee.

Now I find myself courting life and death.

Planting lavender.



And when a swarm chose one of our plum trees as a fitting rest stop for a queen,

how I envied The Keeper of the Bees *

who came to save —

what will save


* The Gene Stratton-Porter State Historic Site

Mt. Diablo Beekeepers Association

Save Our Pollinators








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