My blind eyes and roving hand found this poem by Jack Gilbert, in a book given me
by Belle Struck. The Poem is called “older women”-
the book is THE GREAT FIRES
Each farmer on the island conceals
his hive far up on the mountain,
knowing it will otherwise be plundered.
When they die or can no longer make
the hard climb, the lost combs year
after year grow heavier with honey.
And the sweetness has more and more
acutely the taste of that wilderness.
I know the heart of this poem well. Yet I don’t want to cheapen it with my thoughts and spungification. How i long for that taste of wilderness. Wilderness.
I hope this monday non-seq coming two days late still takes you in for a moment.