In the morning

       of a late summer day,

       our father

       would open the door

       and say,

       “Smell the beebread.”

And we would inhale deeply

       of the heavy scent,

It had not been there 

       yesterday.

       Magic,

Later, in the afternoon,

       we would walk

       over to the hive

       facing east

       in the shelter

       of the big sugar maple,

And we would watch

       the bees arriving

       with loaded bread baskets.

And we would watch

       the bees leaving

       with baskets empty,

       hurrying,

       getting instructions

       on where to find the goldenrod bread

       to go with

       their stashes

       of golden honey.

                            -Marion Harless

                                     West Virginia