We wander round ring after ring of life,
One after another, blossoms of light
To which we’re but a mere flotsam of bees.
And although this isn’t true, the poem says
This is true; life, light, flowers and bee: truths.
So stop and hold this poem above your head.
Hold it up to whatever light you find.
Then let it go: forget it if you can.
If it is meant to remain, it will remain.
And if it is meant to light, it will light.
Your hands will have moved on to something else
But your head will have, say it, its halo.
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