Finding Vespers

The wasp on the sill
was blue-black, brittle,
split open and empty,

perfectly still,
a casualty
of frost, a chapel

by Tiffany.
I wanted to crawl
through that fissure

ants had drilled
to see if autumn
could mix colors

in the shell
the way a gall
on the live oak

might fashion
acids to ink.
I was ready

for the chill
of the ember season,
bright leaves against

blue splinters.
I crouched by
the window to touch

the calligraphy nib
of its stinger
sharp as a quill

for etching love
letters. I held
perfectly still.

Wind stirred the wings.
Glass shimmered.
The first star of evening.

Light spilled.

R. T. Smith
Chelsea 64
40th Anniversary Issue

Copyright © 1998 by Chelsea Associates, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.