Spring Sign

First Place Comfort Contest Winner

By Samantha DeFlitch

Bees won’t leave their hives in winter except
to relieve themselves. Have you ever seen it?
The hive-boxes stacked & numbered, orange
green and red atop each other like generations.

Round them, in the spring-won’t-come snow:
gold dots. The visible reminder that inside
nestled hives: munching, snoozing, tight bees
tucked in. Sign of tomorrow-to-come! A wind-

roused bee crawls from this hive for a quick
midnight leak, eyes still screwed shut so the
lingering porchlight doesn’t get in, doesn’t
wake the dreams or the dog, thin & guarding.

What woman belongs to this dog? How far
back does the dog make dreams? Every May
the woman tucks a light-stringed birthday
cap under the dog’s chin. It is a good dog,

and this a good woman. See how tender-
ly she holds her own body, though it is a bad
body? See how the dog sighs. Here is every-
thing necessary, tucked between slush

and scrub. Even I can see the holy inside
the imperfect: slow bee and bent wire
fence, chicken coop open and midnight.
The sky is a blue ritual on the road home.