Clumps of bees kiss the honey jug.
Scores of them pile on pineapple slices,
hover in scent, stick to juicy surfaces,
pitch a hum just below bliss.
I trust the thick buzz I rest on
even when the blender drowns it out.
I stay and watch and sip my smoothie—
with ginger, for a little sting.
He tightens the top with fruit-soaked fingers,
looks at me with his patch-free eye,
says, They’ll push the lid off if you let them—
and they do, nuzzling the screw thread
with tiny bee hands, abuzz with honey lust.
Scooping berries through the swarm,
he tells me, Bees love organic.
Everywhere I go, the bees come to me.
In a nearby field, colonies hide
behind shimmer and daze.
Soon they’ll mill into view and fly this way,
dense as a flock of starlings.
The Chattahoochee Review, 2015