The Beehive

At the bend of the root beer-colored creek

was a popular swimming hole

referred to as the Beehive.

As the sun bore down upon the peninsula

during the summer months,

a swarm of boys would gather there.

The hive had no order to keep or queen to serve,

only the task of enjoying the watery nectar.

This was the way of the hive.

Years later,

I drove down Pennsylvania Street

to see the condition of the Beehive.

The bend had been overtaken by vegetation,

and any trace of a past swimming haunt

required a twist of the imagination.

The bees had long since departed;

and the ways of the hive had died

beneath the growing of things.