His ear against the hive, he raps it twice
and though the day is cold the cluster stirs.
The sound of wings as anxious voices rise
to challenge that their rest should be disturbed.
The hives are wrapped in black. Across the field
snow has bent the goldenrod and grass.
Propolis, pollen, honey – summer’s yield
as stores give way again to winter’s fast.
It hardly pays to keep bees nowadays.
The costs are high and Chinese honey’s cheap.
And he’s too old for lifting anyways –
It’s gotten too damn hard to pull the deeps.
He finds as many dead-outs now as not,
but knows at least this winter can be fought.
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