I’m taking a bit of a break from fiction writing while I wait to hear back from Jamie. I plan to tackle y books the week after Christmas when I have some holiday time off. But since words are forever calling out to me, I found myself fiddling with poetry yesterday.
After the leaves fall and the cold comes
I can clearly see the papery homes
of wasps and hornets high in the trees.
Empty nests hang like ripe fruit,
so obvious, so apparent, so safe
now that winter is here and only
the queen remains, tucked away
somewhere warm—somewhere else.
I have walked this path again and again,
spring, summer and early fall,
without knowing the work going on
above, without sensing the danger
humming just over my head.
But now all is clear—danger faded
with the first hard frost and I feel bold
for having braved this gauntlet.
I feel grateful for the not knowing
a gauntlet was ever here.