he put on the beekeeper’s suit

pulled the netting over his face

and headed out to the back of the garden

gathering caps in his non-descript pail

and bringing them inside

 

in the kitchen he setup the caps

to drain of their sweet nectar on the counter

capturing the golden flow

emptying what he wanted most

 

eventually, the caps emptied

he washed them

and washed them again

then placed them on the stove in a pot and melted them

straining the melted wax through the cheesecloth he kept in the pantry

being careful not to burn himself

 

wax, pliable imagination

wet and wondering

he poured into the old canning jars

after tacking a wick inside on the bottom

and stretching the wick over a pencil laying across the open top

like a serpent jumping out of the warm wax bath he had made

 

after the wax dried

he removed the pencil

and lit wick

you think he has created a candle

or light

but not exactly

 

the light brushes up against the darkness

making the darkness visible

finally

giving the darkness meaning

darkness, a womb for light

darkness, waiting for light

 

before darkness there was darkness

waiting for its name