Daily Honey

At my great-grandparents’ house, a colony of bees
once nested under the eaves.

Rather than declare the bees a pest,
my ancestors chose live and let live.
The hive was over the kitchen window,
the bees and humans could watch each other make food.

As the hive grew and merged
into the wall of the house, honey flowed
oh so slowly and made its way
through the window frame and down
the inside of the pane of glass over the sink.

Each day there was enough
to scoop and scrape for a sweet treat,
to add to toast or coffee or tea.

I wonder what that’s like.

Where’s that balance,
that letting-go flowing point
where a problem of ours becomes instead
its own reward?