The Library of Beehives

The roof is a meadow turned inward, slates humming with a warm arithmetic. Each hive a room whose walls are waxed light, catalogs of nectar, soft-spined and amber.

I walk the corridors of heat and pollen, a librarian with smoke for a whisper. The bees write in loops, a script of circling, their feet stamping the index of bloom.

On the tables of comb, I read the day’s weather, spells of rain folded into the cells. A wind outside scratches at the windows, and inside, the hive answers with choirs.

At dusk the building folds its wings to sleep, doors stitched shut with propolis and dusk. I leave with my coat smelling of summer, the last line still vibrating in my hands.