362 – Blessing (Honeycomb)

Blessing (Honeycomb)

I am weary
of these poems
carved of bitterness
and loss, spun
from finely turned
doubts.

I long for bees
and heron’s blue
shadow overhead,

for the fox grinning
his tail into his hole
just ahead of the hound,
who is happy
to be hunting, alive
in his body.

Where is the raucous yellow?
Where the whale’s song sounding
so like the seas of the heart?

The poems I crave
bloom like morels, hidden
in the feet of things,
covered in rain and rot,
not apart from, but one with.

Honeycomb sweetens
in the presence
of the sting.

 

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