When I put the kitchen light on this morning, I could hear a
tapping on the window. I opened the blind to see about thirty wasps flying
aimlessly against the glass in an attempt to get to the light. The nest is
breaking and anarchy is the queen now. The males have been evicted and the workers
wander aimless and lost.
I make a light in the night and then shrink back
And tortured, purposeless they come to the window
Winged warrior queens in a vain and futile fluttering
The wasps are fading into the dawn in swarms of pain
Raging yellow- black stains on late summer's glassy page
Their summer almost done; they curse the new days
They now reject its unsolicited options like a tragedy
And were they to touch me they would surely strike
In a jaundiced ill that seeks only to assuage its pain
Piercing me with a sting, I could not draw out again
So I damp the light and retire into shadows once more
Let them rage and batter the glass for I cannot help
These bittersweet casualties of winters war against us