Cupid Complaining to Venus
Lucas Cranach the Elder (c. 1472 – 1553)
Appetite
Pale gold and crumbling with crust
mottled dark, almost bronze,
pieces of honeycomb lie on a plate.
Flecked with the pale paper
of hive, their hexagonal cells
leak into the deepening pool
of amber. On your lips,
against palate, tooth and tongue,
the viscous sugar squeezes
from its chambers, sears sweetness
into your throat until you chew
pulp and wax from a blue city
of bees. Between your teeth
is the blown flower and the flower’s
seed. Passport pages stamped
and turning. Death’s officious hum.
Both the candle and its anther
of flame. Your own yellow hunger.
Never say you can’t take
this world into your mouth
Paulann Petersen
For Midsummer candles and mead
http://beealldesigns.com/about/
Secret Gardener 
What a wonderful find – both the image and the poem.
Again–been treasuring the picture–and in this case the poem– waiting for the time to be ripe.
Isn’t that exactly how honey feels?
And the candle-maker is the daughter of Louise! who swept us from Queens to Rosemont at Hopewell Junction–and Yuxel.
Rediscovered in San Francisco, with a mead-making boyfriend. I thought cousin Kelly was unique in that wonderful venture.
Oh So Beautiful! You are a secret gardener indeed! Thank you Cassie.
Oh How Delicious! Thank You!