The Honey Makers Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The bee flies out on tiny wing
to find a flower in the spring.
She sips the sweet juice with her tongue,
a journey that has just begun.

Inside her special honey sack,
she carries all the nectar back.
Her body adds a secret brew,
to start the change to something new.

She shares it with a waiting friend,
who mixes it from end to end.
A passing drop from mouth to mouth,
like workers in a tiny house.

They fill the little waxen rooms,
then fan the air with wing-beat blooms.
The water leaves, the mix gets thick,
a golden syrup, rich and quick.

When just the right amount remains,
they cap the cells with wax like panes.
The honey sleeps, a winter store,
behind a sealed and golden door.