Mary Buchinger
Old Wasp Nest

conical and crisp, suspended from the beech tree
—abandoned? It’s early spring, the warmth of the sun
essential and burgeoning; the breeze, lined with coolness.

The nest, sturdily applied, extends and twirls the grey of
the small branches holding it; a bit ragged at the bottom,
here and there flaps come undone, but still, for being what
it is—fibers from dead wood and plant stems mixed

with wasp saliva—how tenacious and substantial to be
here in April, no leaves on the trees anymore or yet.
Old mother of aging children. To extricate this nest

from its twining, and shake, however gently,
always, even long after it’s sure to be empty,
the worry of what might wake.

* a reprint of this poem's appearance in the authors' 2015 collection, Aerialist (Gold Wake Press)

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