When you go in search of honey you must expect to be stung by bees.

Until you have smoked out the bees, you can't eat the honey.

The keeping of bees is like the direction of sunbeams.

There's a depth in you that has yet been discovered.
Abyssal and buried
it terrifies your lovers.
These trenches
carved in your heart from years of pain frozen over into ice.
Bottomless cracks in your chest 
where no one can touch you 
has become paradise.

Everything about her was sweet, pale like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair.

We think we can make honey without sharing in the fate of bees, but we are in truth nothing but poor bees, destined to accomplish our task and then die.