By Gertrude Davis © 1987
Issue: July, 1987
Great granny knew to tell the bees
lining a path through apple trees
Each colony living side by side
The autumn that my grandpa died
The custom handed down from yore
Survives as valid mountain lore
To keep the bees from disarray
And taking flight to far away
From home in weathered wooden gums
They answered with sibilant hums
When granny walked by each and said,
"Your master's dead; Your master's dead."