She lived her life in motion—
a hum of gold and work,
her wings glinting like small prayers
offered to the morning.
When age found her,
she did not fly home.
No grand farewell,
no final dance in the hive’s dim hum.
Instead, she rested—
on a petal soft as forgiveness,
beneath a sky that shimmered
with the quiet pulse of stars.
There, she listened
to the slow breathing of the earth,
to the whisper of flowers
she had once fed with light.
If dawn returned,
she rose again,
gathered a single dusting of pollen—
her last alms,
her final hymn—
and left it for her kin
before vanishing
into the still air of morning.
So when you see her,
a tiny form cradled
on a blossom at dusk,
do not disturb her rest.
Bend closer.
Say thank you.
She is more valuable than gold.
