It comes to this.
When the weather cracks
and turns toward the north
and the cold. These wasps begin
to tumble. Every year I have watched
them and grown sad - every year.
It starts on that day when
the light shifts toward Autumn.
Every year I have had to say good-bye.
Perhaps they know it is coming.
Days and days before the crack,
before the turn, they become wild.
Frenzied. Unexamined. Like a man
with no connection to his senses.
Flight and attack, day after countless
day in August..
Swept into the corner (on
the slate walk) with the
golden leaves and dirt,
they are gone again -
for another year.
7 September 1995
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