Courtesy Wikimedia Commons
The beehive is the white Church of a meadow
On the southward facing angle of a hill,
White pinewood the house, and at the front a portico
Where servants of a mystery expose their wings
All the acolytes of honey rise toward noon,
Translucent are their wings, the sun can sketch
The shadows of the veins upon the white wood,
And those who fly can hover and can fetch
Light from light, the sun transformed to honey
In many tabernacles is reserved, six-sided
Are the waxen molds, ciboria to suck,
And all are given nourishment, divided
Life and ritual, symbol and deliverance are one
For these unfallen angels, who must fall