My Grandfather explained the simple pleasure of tying
String to a drone bee - they don't have a stinger
He'd say with a glance.

I thought of him
While drinking coffee outside
And sitting silent.

The hum of the bees in the white hydrangea blooms --
An orchestra warming up.

I thought of him
Aging

Under the ballast buzz of an old florescent tube
Chilling a dusty work bench with a soft flickering glow.