By Kindra McDonald (PDF view)
 
Listen to the music of the apiary.
The low hum vibrates the fields
with a whine that fills the head.
Look to the bees, how they teem
in pulsing order. The nurses
clean and prepare the comb;
they circle and protect the queen.
Heavy with collected nectar
they fan their wings to cool the hive.
A symphony of movement, eggs
quivering for spring. Listen to the drones
hum. They do not sting only wait to mate
and then move on.
At the center, the queen nurtures and defends.
In winter, when nothing blooms, the bees eat the stored
honey and it tastes of sun.

When it reaches you
honey is the flowers of the field in your mouth,
it is all that blooms around you in this order,
in this sweet, sticky work. The threads
of sugar stretched from thumb to thumb
where God writes his name in wax, in combs,
under flesh and flower,
and comes seeping out to
coat our tongues in prayer,
in praise in sweet, sweet grace.
 
 

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