Then the honeybees arrive,
Three thousand
Lost on a sugar nut branch,
Thin air, thick.
Woven with wings,
A ball bound to itself,
Globular, pendulous,
Swayed by the wind,
A living drip
That won’t drop.
When the beekeeper comes,
Barehanded, bareheaded,
He sweep-scoops them
Into the open top of the hive,
A frame-filled box, where,
Flowing,
They pour themselves
Across golden hexagons,
Disappearing,
Honeycomb, home.
But look!
At the entrance,
Four drones emerge,
Abdomens raised, throb-wiggling,
Wafting pheromones
Into the invisible sky,
To where the last of the swarm,
Glazed like honey in the bark,
Too delicate for gathering,
Has been left behind.
Scent. Signal.
Ah, to take good
Care of one another,
To whisper,
“Here. This way,”
When someone is
Lost.
Silently. Entirely silent!
First one, then another,
The last of the bees wing homeward.
Forrest —
Would you be OK with area farmers markets including some of your poems in their seasonal market newsletters out to market customers? I see it as a possible additional way to draw new connections between the farmer on the land and the urban customers who purchase his products. We could certainly include a copyright notice in whichever form you would like if we published one of your poems. For space reasons, we would likely use only the shorter ones.
Love ’em!
Rob
As Jeff Tweedy says, “just remember: what was yours is everyone’s from now on” (From the song ‘What Light’). Absolutely, enjoy! Feel free to say ‘Copyright Forrest Pritchard; used with permission of author’ in fine print.
Paints a very descriptive picture, partly with the words an partly with imagination. Nicely done.
From one writer to another, thanks!