my pen speaks 
with fatherís tongue tonight

not my square block letters
grooved into each diary page  

but a quick lick of cursive ink 
in his slanted script 

Dad describes star nectar
gathered by midnight bees

honeycombed in harvest moon hives 
where he removes beeswax caps

spins to extract clover-scented teaspoons
to drip into my chamomile dreams

with the buzz of first light 
I recall how his scoldings stung 

swallow maroon blood
from my swollen tongue

© Kimberly Peterson