Hive an idea that ...

Hive an idea that ...

My mind is a hive of words.

Sometimes they wiggle their signal bellies 

to indicate where the pollen of a poem lies,

and off they flies to collect the nectar

from the read thesaurus blossoms, to 

feed it to their runny honeycombs,

where the grubby words are sleeping;

and golden of the royal jelly, set from

the sun in their eyes, all faceted by

the lines of the stained glass windows

of my other mind, they fly away and

drone on and on over the meadows

of my dreamzzz.

But I don’t mind at all.