“Tell the bees that I have died,
They used to say that if the hives weren’t told of a birth or death in the family they would leave the keeper,
So there is no need to lie.
Tell the bees I am no more,
Bees in the house can be a sign of good luck or bad luck depending who you ask and they said much the same thing about me,
Tell them everything it’s what they’re for.
.
Go tell the bees I am reborn,
The house has seen more than its fair share of marriages and births and deaths and tears and spilled milk over honeycomb,
Make sure the bees are warned.
I would tell them myself,
I used to tell them everything, whispered like the breeze through leaves privately, publicly, prophetically,
But now they’re worried for my health.
.
Go tell the bees I was sick,
I have lived and died in this house more times I have cut my hair, but less times than I have wished on stars,
Honey is a natural antibiotic.
Tell the bees about recovery,
I would tell them myself but it is taking everything I have to still love them when my skin makes me scratch and scream,
Tell them healing is a journey.
.
But tell the bees I’m coming back,
Nothing will keep away from hives under trees, beside the lavender and clover and bird-baths where the blackbird fights the robin,
Please tell the bees that.
Tell them I’m getting free,
That when they next swarm in the summer thinking of leaving I will be there better than before and ready to dance with them,
Go tell it to the bees.”
woolandcoffee 