Wiseblood Books

Candlemas

Gabriel Olearnik

These cells of light, glowing with
the fat of flowers,
the entrails of summer:
it rises to a rhyme, the hum of fire
the laughing buds of radiant heat.

Oh, attend those burning prayers of bees
the censered sound of poured honey
a guttering, dribbled benediction, and in the temple all the
insects cry:

Glory.

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