sunday in october
the farmer, in the pride of sea-worn acres,
showed me his honey mill, the honey-gate.
late afternoon was busy on the land,
the sun was a warm gauzy providence.
the honey mill, the honey-gate. and then,
near by, the bees. they came in from the fields,
the sun behind them, from the fields and trees,
like soft banners, waving from the sea.
he told me of their thousands, their ways,
of pounds of honey in the homely apiaries.
the stores were almost full, in autumn air,
against the coming chill, and the long cold.
he was about ready to rob them now,
the combs. he’d leave them just enough to keep them.
I thought it a rather subtle point point he made,
wishing providence would be as sure of us.
image credit: danny1970