Out my window the snowflakes dance.
From my tower I watch them fleet,
float,
fly –
on the frosty back of the Western Wind.
Their mistress is fickle and cold, not caring where they blow.
Chaos; wonderful, unchecked, to the ground below.
My mistress is too, as frigid; but I am frozen, slowed.
Left to regret a life owed.
the sagacious bee 