Home from work by 6:20.
I head to the treehouse,
following the lead of my soul.
Look at that sun.
I climb the steps.
I reach the top.
I look through the screen
and I see it is full of wasps.
And I feel somewhere down in my gut
the reaction of mine last year, and I see myself descend the steps in defeat and in fear
and take to the pergola patio instead, without even a fire
-OR-
just go back inside,
time and time and time again.
And I stood there,
staring through the screen
watching the wasps and contemplating my
so-called “inability” to ACT.
BULLSHIT.
Today I took to the Winco immediately,
seeing one small stone of thought+desire+will+action come to life,
and it faned the flames.
—-
The wasps were several.
And so they felt like so much more.
I was not dramatic about it.
I was practical, orderly, and just+vengeful
but RIGHT and therefore good.
I spoke to the last one.
(Or he me, rather.)
He was wedged between the cracks,
more stuck by physics than crippled by poison,
staring at me wide-eyed and wing-tied,
angry and confused, begging to know
for what reason does he deserve this for
and who the fuck am I?
It seems this one hasn’t yet been informed.
A newcomer to these parts.
(or perhaps that’s me)
I told him aloud:
“Go back, and tell them, all of them,
that HERE: NONE of you may dwell.
NOT. ONE.”
As as I pushed him to go,
I suddenly heard the boy’s voice in my head, from that time on FT
yesterdaym when I answered the phone here fighting for his cabin and against these
wasps like a wild lunatic, exposing both my fear and my fight to Charlie on purpose, and
he shouted as I ran and sprayed over and over “Do it Dad! Do it for me! Be the Warrior!”
…and the wasp choked, and breathed his last.
And the others nearby all heard and saw.
————–
