Rooftop Apiary

At dawn the rooftops unzip their frost, and bees lift out of painted boxes like commas shaken from a long sentence, searching the air for verbs of bloom.

Between antennas and rusted gutters a pear tree in a cracked barrel flowers anyway; its white mouths taste of rain and metal, its scent a candle held against traffic.

I stand with a smoker cooling in my hand, listening to wings tune the morning into brass. Each hive is a dark violin of weather, resin, thunder, sugar, and work.

By noon the city hums in their key. Windows open like patient fields. Honey gathers its small amber planets, and even concrete learns to flower from sound.