I have a few jars left from 2008 but I feel stingy with it and miss the generous feeling of many jars in the cupboard.
One of my new favorite poets, Mary Oliver, writes often about the bees. Her "Honey at the Table" really speaks to me:
Honey at the Table
It fills you with the soft
essence of vanished flowers, it becomes
a trickle sharp as a hair that you follow
from the honey pot over the table
and out the door and over the ground,
and all the while it thickens,
grows deeper and wilder, edged
with pine boughs and wet boulders,
pawprints of bobcat and bear, until
deep in the forest you
shuffle up some tree, you rip the bark
you float into and swallow the dripping combs,
bits of the tree, crushed bees - a taste
composed of everything lost, in which everything
lost is found.
--Mary Oliver from American Primitive
She has written a number of poems including bees and I'll share more over time.