Bee Charmer

The softest thing in the world
is the down of a bumblebee:
this was your secret at four years old.
Bee charmer, you smoothed
those dark filaments gently
as they burrowed deep for nectar
like dogs at a bowl.

One day you touched the wrong bee,
battling against an unseen pane,
desperate for the green blur beyond.
The sting stuck deep:
your charmed fingers
never recovered.

Until now.
Your soft edges are angles
of cheekbone, hip,
and I am the worker
transfixed by your skin.
Let me feel your finger tip:
my sting is guarded,
I am lulled among the petals.

To hurt you
would be the death of me.

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