The Bees

Where I lie,
the sun shoots sharp and warm,
then retreats.
Again and again—
a hot-tempered woman
who cannot decide.
Who loves
only the idea of love.

Everything bursts
behind my lids
in reds and golds,
then trails away
into cerulean,
into sap green,
still circled by heat.

I crack open my eyes
and watch the bees.
They move through the tall grasses,
hovering over their work.

Their bodies hum
of being just born,
yet already midlife.
For the queen,
they sing.
For the queen
they gather.

What is it like
to be a bee?
Absolute solitude
in absolute worship.
Devoted only
to the endless revolutions
of something
long before you,
which will continue
long after.

Not conditioned—
only nature
pulling them
to their destinies.
Motherless.
Driven
to collect and deposit,
back and forth,
back and forth.

I couldn't sleep as a child.
I wondered what was wrong with me.
While everyone whispered
of heaven's glory,
I was struck with terror.

Would I, too, be a bee?
Only a bee could circle the throne
again and again and again—
to orbit but never touch,
never become.
Flying out
only to collect
what sweetens
another's mouth.

The queen,
feeding off the milk
of our bodies.

Is salvation an entrance,
or a sentence—
the loss of all self?

Or maybe
God's intention
held nothing of this.
Only the contrast
of light and shadow.
The changing
behind our eyes.
The burst of color
in the void.
The thread
of our own story,
stitching us
to ourselves.

I watch the bees
from my hammock.
Curious.
Not alone.

—

Sarah wrote this before she envisioned The Light Before Sound.
The painting came after — her answer to a question she hadn't known she was asking.

The Light Before Sound

72 × 72 inches  ·  Acrylic and mixed media with resin

Available to collect. Inquire here.