Honey

Of the four hives of bees purchased,
And the three or four swarms,
None remain.

I haven’t had the
Courage

To open the last two hives.
Afraid to find the black ooze of foulbrood,
Or maybe just the nastiness of
Black widow or rodent.

One hive appeared fully empty,
Dead bees dropping from empty wax frames.

Soon after I pulled off the top of the second hive
I noticed a drop of what I have never yet seen
On this farm:

Honey.

It only took four years.
And the death of all the makers.

I have no idea what to make of this final, sweet gift,
Except that I prefer it to
Foulbrood, black widow, rodent.