abandoned and lovely, the paper shells

                                                 abandoned and lovely, the paper shells

come into winter, when the last

of the wasps have gone

beyond us, when the crab-apples

surrounding their home have

wizened in their once prized

tiny pied bodies, when

the picker elbowing through un-

knowingly and then abruptly

knowing, when mortality was

suddenly a buzzing song she didn’t

rehearse but knew none-the-less,

I’ll walk under the subtle gray

paper waves and make my way into

and through months of redeeming

quiet, atoning the three seasons

of seeking food from the beasts who

have now given me over to the cold

quiet or the violence or the ice

and I’ll see this suspension

in the naked branches, a limp

stupa.  I’ll wonder if I will be

too busy to imagine the living

that went on inside of it, before

it was a barren mausoleum, and

remember the wasps, content

in the tree with everything they needed

right outside their door.  Imagine

that if wasps made honey!

and consider the layer after layer

of the subtle tones and aromatic notes:

the early blossom and the cautious

but driven pollinators, the dog

up and ready before the summer moon

had set or risen, depending, a new

baby boy in the house beyond, navigating

life outside his nine months of quiet, 

the inconsistent rooster whose clock

is not our own, and the mouth

that kisses the wrist with lips

and tongue and teeth to free the stinger

because sweet Jesus we dared

too close.

*title inspired by blanche milligan