Honeyed Globe - New Eve’s Childes Let Nature’s Decay Go

Creation hums and whirls; moth, mosquito,

  leaf unfurl,

Cricket-lutes, amphibian pipes—all band

to play.

Who would guess He orchestrates,

fiddles on the blades the cattle tend,

dances on the hilltops as mountain lion,

as antelope on plain, swan on lack serene.

One can see why tribal men bent and bowed,

pointing to the sky, the tree, the fowl,

and naming each force as deity—grand,

supreme.

For Maker strolls through garden veiled,

carrying molecules like chicklets in weaved

basket of his hand,

tracing the galaxies like Christ-finger in sand,

and all palm leaves, volcanic mounds and cedar poles

vibrate at His Name;

with soil and stones and tiny things panting for His step,

since winds His way as Spirit-Breath in all that is—

a Bee with heaven-hive and Queen, Who gathers pollen-moist

and warm and rich upon the crests of land and lochs and seas,

from Silva-Ecclesia—Flower-Field—He planted as Adam-seed;

reborn as blossom from Jesse’s stem.

For flowers ripe and many, a pollen flock He draws

and harvest-plucks through angel-bees that buzz and dart.

And all that Wonderland above mirror-glows beneath,

all warmed, caressed by Phoebus it’d seem,

splashed and brought to life by Helicon’s wash,

but all is wild and meekly-fierce with radiant bursts of Love,

a Love Divine! sublime as wine, as milk, as honey from the tap—

drip, dripping from celestial ceiling where Muse reclines;

fair Majesty, the Mistress, Lady Empress, Mother of All-Living Things,

sweet Virgin May, Mary of Galilee, Nazareth’s maid,

crowned with petal-cups the childe-flowers made;

and it is She who brought Maker near

and smeared honey on the globe.

So is it any wonder why witch and Celt smell the rose

and call upon the stars—the set, the fell, rubbed on toad?

They twist the blade the Maker made, and play a different tune.

O unaware, the rare, the raw, the bloody-paw,

pierced by blade, mauled and stung;

of Judah-Bee, that Lion free, Antelope, Swan, the Word

set free the globe,

the honey-sphere, with nectar spread, bled on Bread,

all universe unknowing feeds and fed.

The Baker watched His rise,

unchained the starches from the captive-dead,

squeezed the udders of the world and tied all nature to His Mother,

Eve Supernal cried, but tied, re-born, secured forever with umbilical

light the beam, the string He orchestrates,

redeems.

Unseen He walks and flies,

grander than an elf, a fairy king,

tickling the lyre—and Liar with his lies,

that pointed to the sky, the tree, the fowl, doth flee—

and whispers He sacred lullabies in garden green,

in spots unkept, in shades, in moss, in mud and far outcrop:

to every soul-flower—He smiles and sows and tries to tear

the eyes (mine and ours and theirs)—the pistil from its grip—

to see as Francis saw, to worship no veil, no sail,

but One that blows the stardust in their spheres;

since mast-cloth tore, the bondage Christ broke and breaks

and will break more

through men grown tall stooping as tree that falls,

that burns to ash, to dust, burning in that Love

and fanned by Bird, by Bee—blown awake as bloom:

childes whose Spirit-Breath, honeyed perfume, is leaven for the world;

that sweetens all nature for eschaton-leisure;

Creator’s play;

O He delights while snow-sugared creation

is driven from decay.

5 / 10 / 2018