Honey Dance

Time heals all wounds they say.
I say we are the wounds
in the green body of time herself.

We harden into berries,
swell, blush, fall, burst,
surrender our seed.

Grubs discover us
and restore us to death,
scrivening black letters

of emptiness into our bones,
the name of the hole.
Yet we need holes to fill

with music, until our absence
becomes a final breath,
the sky.

This is the honey dance
of crystal and sap that happens
among fallen apples

bleeding out their gold
through fissures of slow-cooked
wine, revealing the way

of the worm in the red delicious…
Yet through all our vanishings
a sweet amrita flows and

one bee only escapes, laden
with vestiges of late September,
the stolen treasures of impermanence…

(Still Life with Apples, Cezanne)