The noisy quiet of the afternoon: loon thrum, wind-rustled chimes, and the expensive hum of big cars beyond my garden wall.
I watch a wasp in its infinite work sucking at the sap of latticed teak. I envy its quiet tenacity, its meticulous body suspended from nothing, drawn to the wood, as I am to you.
I say your name, launch it into the air, a whispered arc. Grabbing happiness by its invisible wings, I hold it tightly to my chest.
Until You, I believed life would hold no new or even forgotten pleasures. You brought me to a place I’ve never been. Yet still I fear the elation, loathing its inevitable loss.
Four bells jeer from the steeple across the square. Reverie broken, wasp vanished, even the fat sunlight has exited the scoured blue sky. And I dread the impermanence of the wasp.
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