The gentle hum of bees fills the air. I sing to them as I slog along the fence guarding Farmer Morton’s trees. I listen, and watch them work. They are tireless. Blossoms perfume the air and each day is a little warmer, a little more fragrant than the day before. Singing is the secret. My mother never sang out here and although her honey was sweet; mine always seems sweeter. I sing with my daughter in anticipation. Where my voice is gruff and low, hers carries the timbre of a violinist; sul tasto: ephemeral, light, airy, delicate and fleeting. Her voice will blend in harmony with the sounds of the workers.
The hives are abuzz
it’s almost time to harvest.
Three frames from a hive
produces about ten pounds
that tastes, as sweet as it looks.
This piece was selected and published by Vita Brevis – Check out this on-line literary magazine for yourself here!