He left his niece the bee-tower.

She had huddled
against the charcoal-stove
as a child,
while he spliced wood
for next year's brood-frames;
the virginal shavings
fell at her feet.

He would lift her
to the flight entrance
on successive floors
press their bodies together;
talk about his stock of bees,
glance at her growing breasts.

How anxious he was
for an equitable temperature -
yet he would push her hand
into the secret warmth
of the matted straw
for lining the winter walls.

'Listen,' he would say at midsummer,
with his ear to the stone -
and she heard again
in the desolate niches,
the thrumming
of bliss repressed.