Watch summers’ wasps lick strips of our outdoor rockers,
peeling bits to spit
into pulp, spun
round several raspberry stems.
Shape of a moldy, grey
in battering wind,
amidst tough shrubs against the shoreline.
What are they doing inside this muffled cave?
Are its workers dead, lined up in hexagonal coffins?
Will the newly fertilized queens, unable to hear,
lulled by the rhythmic memory of our swaying chairs,
sleep winter away?
By Jane Spencer
Jane’s background is in the Fine Arts. Expressing visual images with words through poetry is incredibly satisfying. She has been mentoring with Rebecca Givens-Rolland in the Boston’s Boston Grub street for the last three years. Her work focuses on the emotions that landscapes evoke. She is neither misty-eyed or sappy in how she see the beauty in nature, but her writing is ethereal, lyrical, and show a love of ambiguity.