The Bee Keeper's Daughter

The meadow held but just herself
On a clear, spring day
Her legs resting
Upon the dewy grass
She wants to weep
But is smiling instead
Her cold, amused smile
Turning up
In sad ecstasy

The blue sky
Holds no clouds
Instead captures the sweet fragrance of new life
Billowing around like a cape
For all to see

The woman rested her eyes
The black lashes
Sweeping upon her pale skin
Her brown hair
Rooting itself into the landscape
And spread out
Like spilled honey

To the East
The forest beyond
Is seeping through her mind
The spicy green
Holds no silhouettes
Instead capturing the beauty
All for itself

Her white dress
Is wrapped around
A figure meant for the seduction of men
But she keeps it for herself
The white dress
Her included
Brands itself into the landscape
Never meant to escape

To the West
The prairies stand
In their golden abundance
Whispering playful folk tunes
As the wind dances gay fully
Through the laughing wheat
An endless sea
Of cream jeweled prairie grass
Consuming all in their way
And filling them with joy

She rested her silken fingers
Upon the necklace
Set around the curve of her neck
Golden icicles
Dripping off the string like honey
Like petals of a flower
Like leaves off a vine
Snaking against her pale skin

To the South
Lies the rolling hills
And sharp rocks
Not a sight of green anywhere
The sun peeks through
This golden landscape
And sets the badlands
Ablaze

The woman opens her eyes
Revealing misty gray
And a sadness seen by none
She touches her hair
And pulls out her comb
Carved with the design of bee's
And other spring life

To the North
A blanket of snow
Dancing ballerinas of snowflakes
Swiftly pirouetting
Into the whispers of the wind
The night sky
An endless abyss
A sea of another sort
Holds no light
Except for Aurora
Trying to enter the sky
But the night keeps pushing her out
A battle of color
Ensues

The woman lays her hands
Back upon the fragrant-filled grass
A tapestry of bee's
Surround her
Dancing upon the pale skin
All the while
Keeping watch

The woman
Is part of a painting
The painting of our world
The art of life
She is only the bee keeper's daughter
Yet she can recognize the beauty
Of the continuance of the soul
Of every little creature

She is enveloped
By the world