It is too beautiful to eat, 
knife crumbles it from gold to dark. 
Out keenest edge cannot stay sharp, 
white in out walls, which seemed so strong, 
damp murmurs with the evenling sleet. 
I wonder if I live too long

How many doors on a honey house?

 Sweet little city in a golden grid,
 wax-walled windows where the soft light hid.
 Angles like angels in a circle’s kiss,
 six small reasons why the world says “this.”

 Cell after cell after cell in line,
 snap into place like a rhyme in time.
 Finger to palm, I can almost see, 
 love has a lattice like a patient bee.

 Hold it to morning, tilt it to night,
 honeycomb geometry, pockets of light.

 Honeycomb, honeyhome, sweet symmetry.
 Sides like sighs in a soft liturgy.
 Count it: one-two-three, four-five-six,
 love tessellates where kindness sticks.

 Gold in the middle where the sorrows meet,
 two open hands hold bitter + sweet.
 I keep the sting and the sugar apart,
 space is a shelter I build with my heart.

 Mercy’s a measure, a gentle degree,
 between what I wanted and what came to be.
 I turn the frame and I learn to see,
 the hex of a blessing, the grace of a bee.

 Breath like a bellows, patience like wax,
 warm it with listening, soften the cracks.

Honeycomb, honeyhome, sweet symmetry.
 Six quiet doorways into empathy.
 Count it round my open palms:
 one-two-three, four-five, psalms.

 One for the sweetness shared,
 two for the tears we dared,
 three for the breath we spare,
 four for the steady care,
 five for the hands that mend,
 six for the love we send.

 Sun in a cell turns labor to gold,
 salt on my brow, little stories told.
 Sulfur of laughter, mercury rain,
 alchemical comfort for ordinary pain.

 I hold the comb to my ear and hear,
 hum of a hymn saying “I am here.”
 Honey is memory, warm and slow;
 compass of kindness tells me where to go.

 If sadness is heavy and joy is light,
 we balance the scales with how we hold tight.

 Honeycomb, honeyhome, sweet symmetry.
 Pattern of mercy under everything.
 Six-fold prayer in a golden ring,
 love is the shape we’re practicing.

 one… two… three… four… five… six…

but then I taste the honeycomb,
it waxen white upon my teeth,
its liquid sun which hides beneath. 
Small deities, of wind or moon, 
behold me. In my shabby room.
I am a god, I lick the spoon.

honeycomb geometry

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honeycomb geometry

Dancing salamanders