On its outward flight, the honeybee
zigzags its dogged way amidst the garden
scents and colors, collecting in its honey pouch
here and there the makings of sweetness.
But on returning – home to the hive –
there is no waywardness, no lingering in its labor.
Laden, ponderously caked,
full of pollen it makes a beeline
for the dripping honeycomb
and the Queen’s golden haven.
Would that I be, Lord, on my way home,
forsaking the world’s bright wavering garden,
having foraged all I need of it to enter in
and turn the inner realms into eternal sweetness.
O child of God, how fanciful you are
in depicting your inevitable return to Reality.