Another rejected pome. Someone else's words.


Full milk moon

One can apply the sublime art of consequence
to keeping a nest of bees captive
             while

they love against a cool crumb of honeycomb.

The modest appetite of the apiary sustains a long
brumal season,
social and solitary they balance,
            honey clear as broth.

One must avoid the hive, Apollo’s hyperborean
cousins;
let to rest well in their waffled cloth.

Later, stored honey is eaten across from a platter of winter
cakes
            while

the colony of bees balance in their homes,
fixed and taciturn,
adjusting the current of frost and immaculate breath.

We bargain for spring, sew fire poppies inside the house; beneath
our beds they seed, take
            root;

mole into the bedrock, lodge tendrils during our
listless sleep
            mornings
of clamour avoiding the pell-mell
of web and flourish.

Nocent dregs of air populate the last myth of season;
the kitchen warmed, and the smell of heated jars.