Four Poems

The apples on the tree are full of wasps.
Red apples, racing like hearts. The summer pushes
Her tongue into the winter's throat.

But at six today, like rain, the first drops,
The wasps came battering softly at the black glass.
They want the light, the cold is at their backs.

That morning last year when the lamp had been left
    on
The strange room terrified the heart in me,
I could not place myself, didn't know my own

Insect scribble: then saw the whole soft
Pelt of wasps, its underbelly, the long black pane
Yellow with visitants, it seethed, the glass sounded.

I bless my life: that so much wants in.