Akin to the end-of-year concert that we couldn’t bring ourselves to attend, the research paper that was never going to materialize, and the spring baseball league that fell prey to more conflicts and rain-outs than games played, the season reveals itself from under the last-to-remain patch of gray sludge as if to taunt, “I knew you wouldn’t be ready.” I was almost ready. With each year of beekeeping—and this is the sixth—I feel a bit more comfortable with what I have learned,

“And if there’s tasks for me, darling let it be known.” —Bon Iver, “89” I had a feeling about the two hives at the west end of my apiary....

Sometimes people notice the cookie jars right away. Other visitors have likely sat in the kitchen for collective hours and never noticed...

I’m not sure how this all came to be. And I’m not just talking about the book. Somehow, from the back of our family’s van, the...

I wrote about baseball, beekeeping, and things that are taken from us.

Maybe they timed their flight from the hive to match my morning round of chores. Maybe they wanted me to see them go, majestic as glitter...

Only through the photograph of a friend did I see the shades of fireball orange, candy pink, and smoky lavender that painted the sky....

Steam from the cup And snow on the path The seasons have changed From the present to past I knew even before I saw the white feathers,...

It must have been an imposter: leggy, medium green, and without fanfare, it grew in great bunches where there had been mint last year. I...

I'm getting better at cracking open the boxes of my hives. I had better be, as beekeeping season is upon us. When I check on my bees, I...

To be so tied to someone that their hurt, disappointment, and fear mix with what's inside of you and become indiscernible: that must be...