Bees & Smoke

BEES AND SMOKE

blue cold sky above San Francisco

above fire-escapes and windows

future and memory meet,

my table empty

except for one cup of coffee

and one black journal

how can my story begin

when I’ve put away the past

with its lonely now,

I put down my pen

sip my coffee,

once I had a grandfather

who kept bees,

he taught me the smoker

and how to sense their anger,

once I did not listen

and was quickly stung

smoke between me and them,

honeycomb full of honey in grandpa’s rugged hands

showing us the color of gold

and how to taste the world of bees

now he and the bees are floating pollen

or a date in a journal

or the smoke between me and them...