Bitter Honey

A flower wilts in my eyes
like a frail dream.
I touch something vulnerable,
something with a pulse.
I touch something
and it becomes cold and gray.
The bird’s song
is hushed by the wind,
and a bee lingers
by the last flower on her grave.
They’ll say this honey is bitter.
They’ll know the taste of longing.

Jaundré van Breda © 2020