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Here there is pasture for the sun struck bees;
Blue bee balm rooted deep among old stones,
Sweet white clover, wild hillside thyme,
Basswood blossoms, so much perfume to spare
It wastes on winds a half a mile away.
And, near old gardens, borage, pink and blue,
Calling the bees until the day of frost.
The old beehunter sets his bee box up
And searches for the treasure, the high hive
These flying herds have filled with honey,
Honey as wild and sweet as dim-remembered days
When a small boy ate sunshine and summer
Spread thickly on his crusty home-baked bread.
From Gridley’s anthology, “Journey from Red Hill.”