Abby

my lover has become a bee. i will love her all the same. i will plant a honeysuckle tree and gather stones to spell her name. the stones will come from the river in our woods where we met in full moonlight in long robes and hoods. her robe was green, and mine was red; she wore a sprig of hemlock wound in circlet on her head. the river comes from foothills where the old ones say the willows weep. my love is especially beautiful when stirring from a sleep. i know why she is bee; a blush made her buzz. another could reverse her–but my hopes are low today, because the old ones tell me apiaries have no room for pride. in there with the hum and honey, how long could a heartache hide?