Anna Davis
Beekeeper's Wife
Silence echoes after the receding
conversation,
I have a glass of wine, on the patio, alone.
As it is cold, I walk up the path and down,
snail shells crunch underfoot,
a peony sinks under heavy flowers.
Trying too hard, I hiss. I haven’t time for it,
greenness spreading over walls, over borders.
Delphiniums, lupines, foxgloves, thrusting.
Behind the old apple trees,
six hives stand in a row like reliquaries.
I am resigned; I have become a keeper of bees.
Page(s) 29
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