Plum

She holds the last bough of autumn for him
But he does not care.
The lie of his oblivion
A frosting on the plum.

She empties hives of bees for him
Enduring stings and stings alike.
She wants their wings, their hums
And the lattice of their lives.

For he is wax and she is ripe -
A harvest moon
Rotting on the branch.