Faint memories of a beekeeper's daughter

In good time, she said, promise
stretched out in summer days
as I mowed Montana hay.
She cooled, served lunch,
denim sky, alfalfa field.

August near end,
college days ahead,
purple buds laid low in rows,
she kept her word,
hid from dad behind white hives,

rode with me into yellow sky.
I did not know bees arrived
Fresno fresh every spring --
worked all summer,
saw hope expire, honey stolen,

death pro quo --
no queen kept, winters alone.
When she calls, I whisper,
my head buzzing
as I lie by the phone.

Timothy Pilgrim