The day rose with shivered light, bees braiding a path
before his eye had even opened.
Rose the woman, resonant as a struck cello.
The beekeeper entered his kitchen among the crumbs
from dinner, all taste a light on the tongue.
Blind, but it was only light, bees blurring past, softening
into butter.
He stepped outside the door, entered the patterns among
fireweed, sourwood, goldenrod.
Rose on the balls of his feet, raised his face toward heat
and hum, placed a hand on the hive wall. Found himself
spilled back into the embrace of the woman. Entered
the sound everywhere, gathered like glass, boozy with gold.
—Anne M. Doe Overstreet, author of Delicate Machinery Suspended: Poems
Anne M. Doe Overstreet is also a poetry workshop teacher at Tweetspeak Poetry.
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