The Beekeeper Who Loved His Bees

The Beekeeper Who Loved His Bees

He rises with the morning sun,

boots on, suit zipped, day begun,

a hum of wings, a golden song,

he’s where his gentle heart belongs.

With careful hands and steady grace,

he lifts the hive and finds his place

among the workers, bold and bright,

who spin the air with summer light.

He talks to them in whispers low,

as honey drips in amber glow.

He knows each queen, each tiny beat,

each path they dance in clovered heat.

No rush, no greed, just calm and time,

a job of love, of scent, of rhyme.

He hums along, they buzz in tune,

a quiet joy in honeyed noon.

The jars he fills are rich and deep,

like golden dreams he gets to keep.

But more than that, it’s them he seeks—

the wings, the work, the honeyed weeks.

So ask him why he stays so still

beneath the hive, beside the hill.

He’ll smile and say, with sun-kissed ease,

I’m happiest here among my bees.🐝