Bee Whisperer
By Laura Secord
For weeks we’ve seen some wild winds.
Today, I find my hives knocked over.
A season’s honey smeared in rivers
on the ground. I stand their domes again.
The bees are swarming in the trees and fighting
against the gale. I watch one entire colony
trapped by a whirlwind, carried out and up
across the Green. I run to follow and see them
swept over the river and caught in a maple grove.
Can anyone call bees?
Alone before the water’s edge,
in desperate worry for my colony,
not knowing what to do, I hold
my arms high, as if to block the wind,
and cry like swarming bees. I speak
about our apple blooms, promise
them acres of blossoms and honey mounds.
Your domes are upright, your babies waiting.
Suddenly, in one black cloud, they return
across the water, above my raised
head and waving arms, over the Green.
When I return, almost
horizontal against the raging winds,
I climb to my orchard, and find
the hives filling back
with colonies of bees.
