What honey this gold bee

made in her cell,

fanning a vision’s nectar

with her wings,

she who could scarcely bear

the thought of hell

and thought that God

must rectify such things,

she who made even

Margery Kempe sit still

in awe of her,

who saw God in a point

and knew that He

cannot forgive because

he can’t be angry,

but must still anoint

our wounds with love

that never started and

will never end,

that all is well

and we’re kept safe

in unknown ways forever:

this is the honey,

she is the cell.

—Gail White