In the Honey Collector’s Kitchen                      

 poem by Emily Ruth Hazel

Spinning gold, trading stories

preserved in amber, we lean against

the tile countertop, licking tiny spoons.

Here in the northernmost apartment

on the island of Manhattan,

my friend who travels for a living

offers each of us a taste

of being lost in other languages.

I picture hands flying whenever he asks

directions to the nearest apiary.

Words crystallize on our tongues.

Smoky overtones. An after-note

of lavender perfume. Buttery smooth.

The scent of macadamia

blossoms in my mouth.

Images float up in the darkroom

of my imagination—memories of places

I’ve yet to go. The South of France.

The Highlands of Tanzania.

Hawai’i. Uganda.

The buzz of conversation carries us

into the night—we travel together

and arrive in different places.

Invited into each other’s minds,

we leave behind a dusting of

where we’ve been. Where would we be

without the pollinators of the world?

How can we grow unless the small survive?

Like them, our detours flavor everything

we make, and we are made to thrive.

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Photo: Alessandro Cristiano, Getty Images via Canva