Midmorning breaks with holy pilgrimage
up the hill toward the flowering grove,
where the makers stir inside their colony,
drones operating antsy droves.
We don our veils and suit our vestments,
purifying our duty with oppressive heat.
Open the gate with quiet reverence,
anxious for the ones we stoop to meet.
Adrenaline will fill our veins,
with deepened breath they sense intent,
with steel in hand we’ll steel ourselves
to steal the nectar heaven-sent.
Fire brings an ancient smell,
the incense burns and fills the air.
We offer smoke and in return
they give the little they can spare.
Prying open rich reserves
the incorruptible honey flows.
We taste the fruit of hard-won labor,
fruit from seed that nature sows.
About the Author
Olivia Speed is a first-year International Relations and Global Studies major at the University of Texas. Interests include beekeeping, traveling, and writing about both.