On my grandfather’s farm:

the hum of bees, hives

marked with dates, wax,

the occasional overtone. A suit

hangs in the distance like

a ghost, and in the tall grass

I uncover a honeycomb. Cells

reference other cells, a maze

held in the receding light. 

It is hollow enough for one

to hear the collie in the wind,

the same wind that is making

the fiddle sing and the bees dance.

Inside, jars line the shelves

like picture frames: years later,

they are opened for tea. Crystalline,

the sugars dissolve.