Penn Kemp

In Praise of an Insectivore, Or...

Reading about Turkish silkworms snatched by pigeons 
I watch my favourite cardinal fling himself along 
our greenhouse rafters, stop and hover at a crossbeam 
midflight like a hummingbird. Can he not break out?

Ah, he found a new supply. Pecking away at incipient 
paper wasp nests, his beak fits precisely into each tunnel 
as if he were sharpening his pencil instead of collecting 
breakfast eggs.  I wondered how to handle those wasps.

(My title turns irrelevant, as I admire insect industry. Are 
poets still allowed anthropomorphic license? I’d rather
quote: Your absence has gone through me/ Like thread 
through a needle./ Everything I do is stitched with its color.)

They crawl busily over the torn surface, attempting repair.
Patient bookbinders intricately mend vellum manuscripts.
When the cardinal returns in a scarlet cloud of retribution
midair wasps hesitate, evaluating change in perilous times.

Penn Kemp, quoting WS Merwin