Hollow of life
the hive remains empty
lemongrass oil dotting its door
a welcome mat to beckon honeybees.
Propolis slathered on the walls
its scent attracting the honeyed crowd,
vetiver on a banker during gala season.
Capturing the mystery of life
within a wooden box
smelling of woodsy cedar,
its pitched roof gleaming copper
with windows to satisfy my invidious voyeurism,
peeping on drones servicing their queen.
Nestled under the half-shade of vines
near a bubbling fountain
leaking from an unseen crack
sustained during an August earthquake.
The garden bulging
pursing with blooms,
a banquet of borage, chamomile, mustard,
California’s ubiquitous rosemary and lavender
planted to feed the anticipated workers
their staff meal.
Converge and hum and buzz and pollinate
the Kaffir lime, the Meyer lemon,
the Sienevyi pomegranate, the Black Mission fig,
the Valencia orange, the Rangpur lime!
The crowning glory of their work
is the nectar I now crave,
a Black bear soon to be raiding the hive
withstanding the stings
for just a taste.
Melting into my morning tea
unctuous, gooey, liquid gold.
The darker the color, the stronger the flavor
ice water clear or murky brown
governed by the bees’ foraging.
Of what will our garden taste?
Jars greedily horded into suitcases
line the sticky cupboard shelf
lit with flowers or bitter mustards or herbal conifers.
Apicoltura in Italy,
apicultura in Spain, Portugal and South America,
apiculture in France, Brooklyn and Bath.
I wish cum
tasted of honey.