I see a wasp

The last one of the season

(Maybe)

It comes in the morning

To sample my breakfast

And whisper thank yous

As small buzzes in my ear;

Soon it will be gone

The way of all wasps

When the wind grows cold

And the short days darken;

I shall eat to its memory

Alone without its yellow, black,

Without its wing’ed gratitude

Until the sun beckons forth

Both myself and its replacement

To sit and share together again.