Instead of Honey

Let’s get to work, time may be short with us,
clouds hang trembling from a lip of sky,
the wind waits behind the distant wood.
We lean on the arms of summer, and as bees
ruffle the clover blooms we search for a storm
of flavor to melt on eager tongues.

Dig for yourselves, turn the earth,
miraculous manna waits on your need
for last judgments when meadows lie down
in a tempest of frost, when the sun
runs south on wounded feet, when sap
dries in green veins. Who’ll shovel your way
into heaven? Not I, my labor’s too dear.

Come, spit on your hands,
those muscles tied to your head,
teach them. I tell you the day
crouches beside us watching,
and you are not saved.
Let the spade welcome the hand
that builds on rock.