Linnea

In the white, fertile fields of heaven
where infinite blessings flow;
on February twice seven,
with your honeybee wings, you go.

You weren't perfect,
None of us are.
But now you sit upon
the morning star.

Your aunt must've wept
when she went to write
and all the letters wret
detail your sleepless nights.

Now my friend lies covered in sheets
and I know not where she is
her body is cold as the fabric pleats
My dear little bee, do you hear what she says?