Wasp on a Summer Cabbage
by Alan Britt

When questions become overwhelming,
god enters the room.

Suddenly, we are at the garden
watching a wasp's jittery legs
twitch pale cabbage leaves.

The nervous moments for legs
belong to us,
not the wasp.

For the wasp
scours one cabbage
then another,
searching for dew,
one cabbage as good as another.

But beneath each whitegreen leaf
lies our wet diminutive religion,
perfectly round,
bright as a diamond,
and infinite as our sorrow
that evaporates
each evening
then reappears
each dawn
without warning.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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