Where are my bees?

I love fresh cut flowers.  This passage from a poem by Karl Shapiro doesn't change that.  But, it makes me think as well as appreciate...


She tended me and held me by my stalk. 
Yesterday I was well, and then the gleam, 
The thing sharper than frost cut me in half. 
I fainted and was lifted high. I feel 
Waist-deep in rain. My face is dry and drawn. 
My beauty leaks into the glass like rain. 
When first I opened to the sun I thought 
My colors would be parched. Where are my bees? 
Must I die now? Is this a part of life?

--Karl Shapiro