The finger he crooked at soldiers who asked what must we do

The finger he would have used to loosen a lace had he thought himself worthy

The finger he pointed toward the Lamb and away from himself

The finger he shook in bloated Herod’s face saying no you may not

The finger he ran along the bars of his cell while waiting to get his answer

That finger blessed the bees drinking from desert flowers

That finger scoured the six wax sides of the cells of their combs

That finger now and then humbly accepted their stings

That finger turned orange with the bees’ orange honey

That finger was scented with honey: it smelled like honey all the time

The finger of John was sweet as the sweetness of God