for days

And I am filled with
melancholy.
Maybe from Daddy’s side of the family.
Maybe his father accidentally brought it back from the trenches in France or maybe from your mother.
Herself emerged from the old growth pine forest to create a singular person
only to give into wild headaches and heartaches
with the shades pulled down
for days.

The Year of Clover Honey

The Last Really Good Shack - porch

It was the second spring in the old farmhouse,
you seeded the open meadow with red clover.
A common cover crop,
it did just that,
covering the slope
in luxurious rich deep green leaves,
topped by scarlet globes
of soft feathered blossoms.
Honeybees, intoxicated with
sweet perfume, staggered in the warm spring breeze,
humming their drunken songs
in sweet unison.

The bees song bewitched us-
a sirens song.
Mesmerized,
we walked across the meadow,
thigh high in clover,
waist deep in bees.
The hillside undulating,
shimmering with invisible wings.
The sound of a million bees
singing.
Their voices so deep,
it echoed in our bodies.
We held our hands out to feel the vortices of their wings.
We were carried in a wind
of wing song.

We were golden with pollen.

The honey was rich that year-
deep amber
and filled with the song of a million bees.

(revised 2020)