The Garden's Little Architect

In the quiet dawn, before the sun,

The garden wakes, its day begun.

Amidst the blooms and emerald leaves,

A tiny worker weaves and weaves.

A garden bee with golden stripes,

Flits from flower, her wings like kites.

She carries pollen, grain by grain,

A silent promise of life’s refrain.

With gentle hum, she tends each bloom,

A choreographed and sweet perfume.

Her dance, a map to hidden gold,

In petals’ heart, where secrets fold.

She knows the rhythm of the day,

In every bud and sunbeam’s play.

A tireless heart in a fragile frame,

Her labor endless, yet no claim.

Through rain and wind, through sun and shade,

She builds the world, though small in grade.

Each flower’s smile, her whispered song,

A testament to nature’s throng.

In twilight’s hush, her work complete,

She finds her rest, in blossoms sweet.

The stars will watch, the moon will see,

The silent hero, the garden bee.