I liked this story that this poem told. I wanted to continue and see where it could go...
He dropped the bowl, shattering and scattering the bees
about his feet and doorstep. Stepping over to get the broom,
he began to sweep them off, like he swept her off, and
she the bees from her studio. One by one, a pile formed,
mounding higher and higher- a hill of yellow and black.
He swished once more the straw, intending to flick them off the stoop-
instead, they turned on stingers and chased the door closed.
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