The mud dauber wasps are dependable

puttering angels

circling in busy patterns

black incandescent

iridescent

tiny airplanes floating on drafts

of sunny kitchen ceiling skies.

They are inherently part

of the hot yawn of summer

and the solitary

penetrable

old farmhouse

at the bay.

They are the only thing moving in the space between still moments.

Dark flecks against luminous white walls,

anchoring us in our physical manifestation of divinity.

If they ever ceased their hypnotic flight,

we would sense an absence

in this remote corner of heaven.

Poem and illustration by Merenda Cecelia