Wasps have begun
to build a small comb
no more than eight holes
in its ash-walled exterior so far,
a little set of mummified volcanoes
right at the apex of the canvas umbrella
I put up to separate some of the porch from sun.
So far I’ve seen two
sort of whizzing around
from time to time but mostly
just crouching on top of their mound
surprisingly still for beings who own flight,
bodies too often like mini sausage links, side by side,
stretching antennae, legs, wings from the nest up to the sky.
I know I should
get rid of their nest while
it is still small and they are only two
but instead, I find myself spending time
watching them hang at that impossible angle,
upside down, twin Michelangelos set to work. I wonder
if they sense me there at all, beneath their empire, contemplating their demise.
I wonder whether one
or both would charge if I knocked
their house down, wonder if we could
possibly live sting-free, neighbors behaving
neighborly. I wonder what do wasps eat to stay alive.
Do they talk to each other, do they make plans, strategize?
And just how big will this monument be if I don’t decide otherwise.
I can’t help but ask myself, when baby wasps come, will they be grateful
to their God, and if so, how long will that gratitude last if they are allowed to thrive?
Photo by rakka_pl on Flickr