!DOCTYPE html> html> head lang=”en-US”> title>Honeycomb by Aaron Baker/title> /div> h1 class=”pageTitle”>Honeycomb/h1> div class=”entry-content clearfix”> h2 class=”author”>by Aaron Baker/h2> div id=”content”> p>Here is the dream where dust, gathered and blowing over the field,/p> p>turns suddenly against the wind and moves with the shape/p> p>of a body. Here the shape of a body forms and reforms as it crosses/p> p>the sky, and then you hear it, the hum of the swarm,/p> p>the resurrection of the will heard first by the forest saints who fashioned/p> p>skep-baskets of mud, dung, and straw to draw, hold,/p> p>and harvest it. The black globes of the bee’s eyes regard you/p> p>as the earth does, which is barely at all, an unflowering stalk/p> p>in the field. In April, you are no Oregon Grape, Willow or Cottonwood./p> p>In May, no Poison Oak, Buckbrush, or Vine Maple. Here are the stacked/p> p>hives in the glade, row and white row of return./p> p>Augustine declared evil an absence of good. But an angel guards the gate/p> p>back to the garden. Good is an absence, and here below/p> p>her gaze, life rises from the dust, root conspiring with raindrop, flower/p> p>with stamen, these tiny messengers passing secrets/p> p>between them. Soon now, autumn will arrive, the emergency be upon us./p> p>Soon the combs will overflow with honey. Soon we pagan priests/p> p>must put on our accruements and enter the glade, fill it with the smoke/p> p>of our censers, bewilder the bees and blind the eyes of the angel./p>/div> p>br /> br> /body> /html>
