Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Tiny Bees Clung to Us

like hats in a high wind, though
there was no wind and the border
lay only a mile or two ahead.
Cross it and be free, we thought,
holding each other a last time
before dashing out, heedless of patrols
scouring the hills for we who were hated,
we who believed.
And because of our belief, perhaps, the bees
were soft and stingless
all through that day, warming us, whispering
of secret ways, humming a tune we followed
like a path.
And later, what a night it was! Loving
in a roofless ruin, starlight
falling over us like music we had never heard,
like joy's lanterns, diamond bees
spending themselves as we were spent, lighting up
the dark hives over which we knew God
bent as though happy
or blind.

By Christopher Howell

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