I loved them there.
not in the air, where I was walking
in dirt dobber brown, angry auburn
in a brightening light,
the sun from out the clouds.
in the picture the lilac wasps cannot sting.
is this why we sing, to take the sting
out of life or the little disparate moments
when we feel too apart?
moonlight cannot come and go
for the lilac wasps in the raspberry shrub
and there's the rub and why
we're stuck on Art
though not stuck in it.
mary angela douglas 12 april 2016