Awaken us in the Spring
when we are one
with flower petal and unfolding leaf.
When our bulging bellies are blessed
with a pat of pollen’s soft spread.
When, we were a winged warrior and a blessing,
not as we are now,
fighting off the cold winds and snow.
Our souls soon to be frozen
into the immutable images of past times,
our stingers still saluting!
‘For Queen and Country!’
We drone our last amidst the ice.
No wasp is as holy as the last, lone wasp!
His spent strength still searching
for that microcosm of heaven,
meant for a lone, warrior wasp
who fights for his place with God.
The wind hammers his suit of armor,
still he searches for the fragments and
forgotten fragrances of pollen.
Singing sweet verses sung of flowers and fields,
that pumped life into God’s broken heart.
Prophet, poet in his soul,
searching for a heavenly home.
December and there is no warmth
amidst the stubble of the fields, and
the solid soil of the frozen earth.
One, dead wasp lies broken.
The world revolves around
this fallen wasp in a field of mirrors.
Death feeds life, life feeds death,
a lone wasp, awakens.