Hive
The magnolia tree’s alive
with bees. Blossom lapses
from a branch: music.
Sunblind in the kitchen I drop a bowl,
see it smash - slow motion - before it happens.
I sweep.
Now, petals: cool porcelain on noon fields.
Always work to be done.
The lake laps the sand bank: wavelength.
The mind succumbs to heat.
Summer slaves to stay awake.
Do bees sleep?
Pollen drunk with sun, do they
return to the queen’s clay vase
to crouch on their bellies, tingling
with honey?
Yellow jackets shot through with black
vibrate round the violets: music.
The lake is a plate on the landscape.
Work to be done.
I hum the lake.
Sarah J. Sloat grew up in New Jersey, and after university lived in China, Kansas and Italy. For the last 15 years, she’s lived in Germany, where she works for a news agency. Sarah’s poetry has appeared in Third Coast, Rhino and Juked, among other publications. (sjanesloat@yahoo.com).