WOMAN'S HONEYCOMB RING

I wear the veil out of basic regard for safety, but I’m careful enough that I don’t bother with the rest. The hive is at the end of a slate path that I laid ten years ago, arcing out from the steps of the back porch that I built, down through the flower garden that I sowed, and behind the hedge that I sculpted into a perfect crenelation. A stack of three white plywood boxes, the center of Eden, around which buzzed hundreds of happy creations, bouncing from flower to flower carrying and multiplying the fruits of my labors. I’ve had dozens of projects in my life, but the hive is my fondest. The bees landed on my arms and hands, scents familiar to them, as I placed the spout of the smoker carefully into the hive entrance and gently squeezed the bellows. Once, twice, that’s it, then the smoker was placed on the ground and bees returned en masse to the hive, carried by the scent on the wind.