Beeswax

March 4 2016

It strikes, sputters, flares.

I cup my hand

and bring the match-stick close.

The smokeless wick

the candle lit

the room infused with gold.

A welcome kiss

our night begins

to have, and touch, and hold.

Beeswax burns clean.

Its honeyed scent

is flowers in spring,

its flame

strong, steady.

And will last, at least, ‘til dawn.

As inexhaustible

as the busy bees

who swarm and buzz and sign,

the drones, who bide their time.

As the voluptuous queen

in all her sprawling lumpy bulk,

churning-out little worker bees

to carry on the hive.

In the warm glow, and soft shadows

our imperfections are disguised.

Making love, by candle-light

all night long.

All I set out to do was write something simple, and short. But no ideas.

A beautiful beeswax candle was sitting on the table right in front of me. I picked it up, and sniffed. How beautifully they burn, I remembered: the flame steady, clean, and delicately scented. And how long they last:  you could make love all night, by beeswax.

So this poem is an indulgence, a bauble, a bit of whimsy and fluff. And if it seems far too sentimental and romantic for me, it is. But what else goes better with candlelight? House fires? Power failures? Rampaging mobs, with pitchforks and torches? No, surely not!

(Btw, try googling “queen bee”, as I did. Some interesting pictures turn up!)