I think Mary Oliver put a spell on me
When I was reading “Watering the Stones” to my girl
The one where the stones drink and sometimes talk.
Or maybe it was a scarf of light
She borrowed from Buddha.
But it felt like a warm scarf of a spell
Like those soft white sparkly mohair scarves
My mom’s friend from Bashkiria
Used to mail us for Christmas.
The package would come in full
of white mohair lace and wild bee honey.
Deep golden honey spread freely
in a plastic bag, we would drizzle it into a jar,
and smell the stream of forest with eyes closed,
smell pure Heaven. Maybe that’s the moment
I fell in love with spells and wild bees.
Now, this warm light lifting my shoulders,
I walk out the revolving glass doors
To greet the drinking stones,
To see if they ate through the snow.
and robin on a leafless branch above
says: Hello!. Hi, I whisper shyly at first
How is your day going?, he asks
We chat a while before I head back
through the revolving glass doors.
Paper people will ask what am I doing
Out there at my lunch hour
Talking into the sky.
I could tell them I talked to a bird,
But this time I catch myself lying:
I prayed to God.
For my bee-loving friends, Bashkiria (one of the autonomous regions of Russian Federation) honey is one of the most prized in the world, still being harvested old-fashioned way