Poem

Winter Bees

You’re not my Stanley, are you? asks
she; response comes precisely
We are not ghosts filling empty husks
but stars and galaxies of memory

Not dead but merely asleep;
dormant until your species made us wake
we are like bees who work to keep
not honey, but thoughts and dreams you make

if your heart is light and pure
from us you have nothing to fear
and the others who made the fissure
are blank as a frame without a picture

so the remains of the human race
will have a kinder gentler face

– Anton Ansford