I went out to gather honey from the hives in the sourwood grove. 
Put on my garment of honeybee clothes and packed the smoker full
     of burlap.
I thought of Samson on my way to the grove.
His hive inside the lion carcass.
His curse of hair and holy muscle.
I stared at the river when I arrived to steel my nerves.
Lit the rags until they burned, then closed the chimney.
I smoked the threshold bare with a steady cloud
that rose inside the storied chambers.
Cracked the seal of the super’s dome and lifted frames
of honeycomb from out of the box.
How many cells filled to the top and sealed with wax for winter meals? 
How many quarts of sourwood nectar distilled to gold?
I made a guess as they buzzed around.
No number sticks in the work of hunger.