for sylvia plath and her bees

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman

january   the sunlight   sharp and thin

yet the bees believe

it is almost summer

and  usually    it is   almost summer here

until  it is  summer

the finger stubbed bottle brushes blush like fiery wine

where the bees work as if finding

a mother-load of california gold 

i think of you, sylvia, as i watch the whir of poetry

focused like the moment of death

which toils among the bristles

on this almost summer day