Giving Away the Hives

On my knees in soil, tearing at grass, listening to chickadees raise the proverbial question. Turkey vultures circle a mile or so west. Late in the day we walk upriver as far as the bridge, turn around and come back, stopping now and then to scour the banks for water-polished glass. When the light blurs a certain way, as if angels were nearby, or a fine mist inexplicably still and prismatic. The strawberry plants wither and then rally and it's hard not to be happy. I've gotten closer to understanding (the first step to undoing) the possession fallacy, and am annoyed at how difficult certain teachers made it. Coming to peace with never keeping bees again, giving away the hives, or aging maybe, or something. I doze off in the rocker, almost miss an early afternoon meeting with students, but make it in the end, a little dull but still competent. Deli meats rolled up with cheese, all of us standing talking about later in the day, who's doing what. "There are still tractor parades" I say, quietly reverent as the tractors rumble up Main Street, to which Chrisoula responds, "yeah and most of the men driving them are racist assholes which you damn well know so can we dial down the nostalgia a bit?" The wedding becomes the marriage, and the marriage becomes the refectory and the refectory becomes the "finer Forge / That soundless tugs—within — " I mean, why do we call it a garden? The sky full of swallows - what is it saying that we have so far managed to avoid hearing? And yes. Yes my love. Yes.