The river knows its way home
The bee knows how to make honey
As I walk towards the river, a bee stung my arm
Instantly, I wanted to give the bee his sting back
I wanted to take back every angry word I had spoken
and shoot them into space
Most of all, I want to return the bee sting
Unfortunately, there’s no winding life back
I keep the bees sting in a box
to remind me that life is fragile
For some it can be too short
like the bee that stung me…
©AnitaDawes2025
a sad poem from my sister. Why do bees have to die if they sting you?
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