A Wasp in the Mulch
Through winter snow I remember the spring,
a wasp who wanted nothing stood his ground
after his home in mulch was rudely found
as I avoided him and his sharp sting.
Then shoveled mulch into a plastic bag
not checking to see if there were others
into the bag I threw the wasp brothers
then to the next mulch pile to pull and drag.
With such thoughtless haste I remove the waste
of an ecosystem I created.
Am I responsible for my own pain?
Am I responsible for the displaced?
Responsible for terms I dictated
for momentary feelings of a gain?
Some days my sins spill forth in front of all.
These days I chase the world with my sting out
to hide inside some mulch or cracked grout
and find a home within this urban sprawl.
Once comforts found a larger party rakes
away the home I create for myself
if I could live upon a higher shelf,
above the world that powerful man makes.
I understand this mulch where I will live
where I will dig my heels into soft ground
and anchor down upon this bed to sleep.
I understand this lifetime that I give
to hold this perfect place that I have found
and pray another year, to fight, to keep.
Who am I to speak of love? Who am I?
I’ve given all to hold a simple joy
yet give the same to hinder and destroy
so quickly that the wasp could never fly.
I have created my own power myth
with might I hold sway over my own land
with might I raise my nation to be grand
and forget who I share this power with.
Here, down upon myself, I think of time.
I think of where I’ve been and who I’ve known
and concentrate on loss and on my pain.
So humorous this yard work that I mime
to try to find a constant even tone
or a momentary feeling of gain.
I find a path, though feel incapable,
a common trend I’ve noticed from before,
an empty feeling leaves me wanting more
my own regrets are inescapable.
I rest my shovel up against the house
a bag of mulch and wasp all closed to tow
to places far away from where I grow
where once it was me and my lovely spouse.
With passing time I seem to grow less numb
as if a flicker of a fire will start
my furnace burning into greater flame.
Until this wasp will feed upon my crumb,
this mulch I left to rot as if an art,
at least I know the world will stay the same.
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