Before Closing Time
What would it taste like, ivy honey?
Would you dare? On my mind’s tongue
I sample green notes dulled by dust,
how it would tease my throat;
cling with a passion, hint at poison.
There are only so many harvest days.
Today, the bees are frantic;
hundreds reel between the flowers.
They can’t stop, it’s so plentiful -
there’s more music in the garden
than that day the pears were picked
in a hurry; the day before Winter.
Yes, they’re all still open: waxy petals
in the ivy tree, bees’ restless wings.