A hawk shadows the lawn,
shades my view
where honeybees hover clover
scattered in the grass, gathering.
Laden with yellow pods of pollen
clinging to their back legs,
I watch them disappear into the hive.
The rusty beehive smoker puffs
as my dad, clad in his sting-proof suit,
walks slowly to the three-tiered honey keeper.
He lifts the metal telescoping roof
to 10 wood frames filled with wax covered goodness,
pulls them out one by one,
and slings the soul of the hive into mason jars.
As I spread the fruits of their labor
on a piece of wheat toast
cradled in my hand,
for a brief moment, I am
surrounded by buzzing, wings fanning
until all that is left
is the pure golden nectar of the gods.
Image credit: Honey photography by Bea Abascal