Wasp, old friend
from yesterday, wakes too
with the sun, first a wide swath of silk
draped against the far knobs,
now a pulsing orb
I lean away from in my chair
to save my sight.
The wasp navigates the screen
that keeps him from flight
and death, come evening
frost that has already chilled
the leaves from the sycamore
where dark birds alight, then swoop
as in one gathered breath
away. Oh wasp!
Your careful crawl toward
blaze of death
from which, for all my pretty words,
I would not save you.