I am afraid of being afraid.
And I know it sounds silly--
sometimes I dream I bring thirsty bees water
and they circle my head like a crown. Forget honey.
It's the bees themselves that really matter;
summer evenings, watching them drop fat from flowers
as if they're made of honey themselves.

But I fear I'd be afraid.

Real beekeepers don't wear gloves.
And if I was stung-- What then?
In truth, I fear I'd drop the frame:
a mess of broken comb and propolis and humid tears.

Still, I some nights dream of bees and think
if I could just stop being afraid
of being afraid of being afraid,
then I'd be bending over sticky frames, my head wreathed
in a hazy veil, and honeybees.