Brother, one day the grove and hives will empty:
the neighbor’s trees frozen back to stumps,
our father’s bees scattered across the scrub.
But today the scent of orange blossom
reaches our patch of sand, and the beeyard
teems with thieving wings. Our father works
the hives, white shirt buttoned to the neck,
hands glove-clumsy. Veiled, he’s mysterious

as a bride. Brother, we’ll want to recall
the pollen-dusted light kissing scrub oak
and sand pine, the needles smoking in tin,
the bees’ stunned flight as our father offers
a taste of honey on his pocketknife.
Our tongues steal sweetness from the rusted blade.