When tomato plants are spotted with wilt,
and crickets have begun their chatter,
the cicada wasps lie in wait, hovering knee high
by the laundry room door—bumbling, blind.
A few spots of pink appear on the Rose of Sharon,
and I feel like this instant is the beginning of time.
and crickets have begun their chatter,
the cicada wasps lie in wait, hovering knee high
by the laundry room door—bumbling, blind.
A few spots of pink appear on the Rose of Sharon,
and I feel like this instant is the beginning of time.
From here fruit will ripen and cicada will be caught
and paralyzed—prepared pabulum for emerging wasp larvae.
The Rose of Sharon tree will be a glowing pink torch.
And next year, cicada and their wasps will again play chase,
tomato plants will fight blight, and I will dust the vegetable bed,
tip toe past bumbling wasps, watch bees visit flowering trees,
and I will still miss my daughters, grown and gone,
somewhere off in Brooklyn and Queens.
panoply, a literary zine 