And though it is a twelfth of a teaspoon,


the sum of all honey she gathers


in her lifetime of a few weeks—
collecting pollen or nectar 

from her solitary votaries, 

legion of immobile virgins
yielding to her tongue, relinquishing 

the bloom of their desires


to her who has wings
(among the vulgar flowers, not a one 

could touch each other or themselves!)

—
it is abundant. She soars over
the scent of longing, buzzing to a rhythm 

she set for herself, choreographer


of round or waggle dance.
For her sisters, she charts the path


with the sextant of her thorax,


telling others of the fervid spring.