Winter Wasp

Deep in the woodpile
I pull chunks of myrtle
for an evening fire,
winter holding on.

When the fire blazes
I notice a wasp,
months asleep,
in a dusty crease.

Do I wait for it to unfurl
and stumble into this false spring?
Brush it off outside for a chance?
Crush it with the poker?

I ponder the length of my humanity
and slide the wood into the flames.

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