Bee in my halo

There indeed is a bee in my halo, but it is nesting peacefully, so I can get all my work done without all the buzz. I dare not disturb him or ruffle his sharp sticky honey-baked fuzz.

I might have a bee in my halo, but it’s a golden one with little golden hairs & a cute wiley grin. He’s been there for several weeks now, just keeping an eye on my nose & chin.

Bees are good omens anyway, they are wonderous totems symbolic of grandeur, sweetness, beauty & luck. They send out signals to angels & faeries to make sure our lives don’t royally sting or suck.

As long as I only have the one, surely not two or three… or I’d be running straight up a tree. More than that, I’d scare the cat. I’d be compelled to scream & shout, & thrash about, trying to shake the dang darn things out.

One bee is fine. It’s actually quite divine. I don’t mind. It’s like having a pet I don’t have to coerce to the vet, that never begs or bites my legs, I don’t have train or walk in the rain.

Which is quite nice, & handy… especially when I have a hankering for honey spun candy. It’s also kinda sacred & silly, like a Buddha named Billy, or a storybook moon in the middle of June at noon in a cartoon outside of a saloon.

I might have a bee in my halo, but he’s well behaved with manners. He actually has cool ideas, sings me songs sometimes & makes sure I never walk underneath ladders.

Bees can be kind pals, as long as you respect their mini fangs & quiet little bee growls, & never invite their swarmy little friends by for dandelion tea or succulent pie.

Your halo will get awfully tired of gleaming, & tilt right over into a hive of bees teaming. Then we will be short a haloed friend in town, & that would be a holy heck of a sad way for this poem to go down.