This is an old house that births wasps. 
Also, memories.
But also, wasps—

Dozy wasps, drones in the non-modern sense, dazed, who, when they fly, float
as if airlifted by some balloon
of forced air heating.

I try not to kill them, to gently sweep them with the edge
of the envelope onto a flap of free calendar,
though they tend to cling to the envelope, which I then carry,
pressed next to the calendar, to a door, that I carefully open,
then whoosh them away.

I do not
not kill them
out of any particular affection for wasps.
(Yes, they can sting.) I just find something sweet
in the not-killing.

I find that sweetness even
in the time it takes to not kill, especially in the time it takes
to not kill, even
when terribly busy.

The taking of that time reminds me of
who I want to be, how
I want to be, how
I want to be

No, they are not honey bees,
yes, wasps,
still, whoosh, sweetness. 


Another sort of draft poem for April. Have a good day!

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One Comment on “Wasps”

  1. Helen Dehner Says:

    One of your finest ….. brava!!!

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