Bee bread, of bees' knees;
The boule of sticky gold cooked
So gently in the house of bees.
Bake it, don't burn it,
Sisters together turn it
In the house that is oven,
In the house that is alembic,
Stir the gold and bake it dry.
Dry the golden ball of bee bread, brother bees.
The sun is shining, lift your head,
Wash your eyes in blue, in tears,
Fill your ears with sunshine's clamor,
Clash your teeth on the beam's bright edge.
Lay true gold on your tongue as in a pan,
Fill your mouth with sunbutter, with skybread.
Purse your gentle lips upon the ball of brightness.
Cook it in the heat of your cheeks.
Now sing, and every word will gild the world.
In mountains honeycombed by rivers,
In tunnels hilariously bricked,
Songs whisper and laugh themselves to themselves.
I keep a honeycombed cavern
Wrapped in sticky, golden wheat
Laid in a golden tub.
I whisper in songs off my gilded tongue.
Now bake the high, round hive of it.
It is dry, and murmurs like drums,
Murmuring my gold sun song in a voice of brick.
Husband, bring that bright knife.
Unbrick my song to tile the children's plate
And tune their tummies to contentment's hum.