They were here long before the garden. They will remain long after.
The hive lives by its own rhythm. It does not belong to the garden, nor to the hearth.
In spring, it feeds on elderflower and hawthorn. In summer, on clover and wild rose. In autumn, it seals itself and remembers the sun.
Honey is not taken. It is given — when there is enough.
Wax remembers warmth. Honey remembers light.