From sun-bleached bones
of tribulation and death’s dried hides,
marrow-rich honey flows—
food for prophets, queens,
and resurrected beings.
In this promised land,
coils of braided straw, tawny as lions,
speak order, industry.
Where coupled oxen pulled wagons
of refuge under clouds, white as froth
overflowing buckets of milk,
behold the skep—carved upon pulpits,
emblazoned on flags, chiseled in stone.
Here bees, gathering succulent nectar
and corn-yellow pollen, make valleys
of Deseret fruitful by their presence.
Invisible paths vibrate with intelligence,
connect blossoms and trees.
Six-walled chambers, worked in wax,
fanned by whirring wings,
become royal reservoirs of rest.
See messengers fly from humming hives.
Colonizing, with sting of truth
they swarm afar gathering goodness
to fill earth with incorruptible sweetness
the color of the sun.
Skep: a bee hive made of twisted straw which resembles an inverted basket.