Jean Toomer

                                                                         Martin Puryear, woodcut, 2000

Beehive

Within this black hive to-night

There swarm a million bees;

Bees passing in and out the moon,

Bees escaping out the moon,

Bees returning through the moon,

Silver bees intently buzzing,

Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees

Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb,

And I, a drone,

Lying on my back,

Lipping honey,

Getting drunk with that silver honey,

Wish that I might fly out past the moon

And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower.