Harvest
I wrote “Harvest” during a writing class in February 2014. We had just discussed William Butler Yeats’s “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”'; while we visited St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin, Ireland, a bee flew around me and reminded me both of Yeats’s poem and the beehives at home.
A clear drop of honey
pools,
clings,
quivers,
breaks—
glistening—
from the frame’s edge.
From the knife,
I peel sticky wax—
soft
like butter,
sturdy
like hard candy.
I break off a piece,
shove it into my mouth:
Pressing my tongue against my teeth,
I taste honey,
sweet and fresh,
fresh and sweet.
I close my eyes.
The sun warms my back.
The air is thick
with pollen and humidity.
Bees drone on in unseen flight.