When the goldenrod bend their heads low in the meadow behind my house, I visit the apiary.
“That’s how you know the goldenrod is nectaring,” the beekeeper tells me on the telephone. “The tops fall over.” I’ve been trying to visit the honeybees for weeks now, but each morning when I call, the bee man tells me he’s too busy or the conditions aren’t right. “This isn’t a good day for working bees,” he says. “Let’s keep our eyes to the sky and see what Mother Nature throws us.”
Every day I check the weather. I stand out on the porch in the early morning and feel storms brewing in the air. In the night, I dream of honey. When I awaken, I carry a memory of amber—a dewy sweetness on my tongue.