The hornet mines pulp
for her paper house.

My house is fragile too,
almost in some ways

like paper. A wave
could knock it flat,

a deadly gust of wind.
Cold coil of winter,

unholy fire of summer.
If only I could gird

the windows with a low,
unceasing drone, fasten

stings with locks
on all the gates.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← FascinatorAt some latitudes they say night is curiously indistinguishable from day →

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