THE BEE by Emily Dickinson
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush, I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry
His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold; His breast, a single onyx, With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee’s experience, Of clovers and of noon!
All photography by Glenn Hall Photography