I hold my honey and store my bread,
not from greed but love.
I hold them close to remember
our lunch in the woods,
on willow leaves and cotton-air.
I ate with care, tending my sleeves,
corralling the honey in place.
But profligate you pinched the bread,
let the honey have its way,
beading down your finger.
An eager lover, you ate with abandon,
raising the bread from your mouth—
a priest lifting the Host.
Such beauty in bitten bread, crushed Christ,
running honey, bleeding price.
Laughter, sunlight, and love.
Such beauty—the glisten of honey and
not my teeth only, Lord, but fingers, lip, and face.
Cover all with glistening grace—
See all as dripping, running, flooding grace.
I hold my honey and store my bread;
for this loaf is more than bread,
this honey more than love.