Last night while I lay sleeping

Last night while I lay sleeping,
I dreamt - oh blessed illusion
that a beehive I was keeping
inside my heart;
And from my bitter, rotting
failures, golden bees
were making
a pure white comb
with the sweetest honey

a poem from the novel The Seventh Gate by Richard Zimler

Excellent book.

(the wild honey comb in the photo is one we found on a walk, it had fallen out of a felled tree.)

Comments

[Abbey]

lovely -- thanks for posting. I really like poetry, but never seem to read any -- sad, I think.