I watched the paper wasps with trepidation
build up a nest in a corner of the porch,
and yet there's something in their dedication:
The urge to build cathedrals still endures.

It's after Easter.  Spring has finally flourished,
though April's rains are bleeding into May.
Yet through those storms so much we bear has burgeoned.
The Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away.

Today a blue jay found the nest.  I thought of
my teenage son, the fridge's open door.
He ripped the paper back to steal the larvae.
Oh. blessèd be the great name of the Lord.

And just like that, there is no nest, no blue jay:
an empty corner shielded from the sun.
A single wasp, already chewing paper,
patrols the ceiling where its hope was hung.

Grow up, my jay, my larva, and grow outward
to tear the paper back that holds you in.
You will be torn.  The rain will still fall downward,
and you will build these paper nests again.

A young paper wasp queen (Polistes gallicus) is founding a new colony. The nest was made with wood fibers and saliva, and the eggs were laid and fertilized with sperm kept from last year. Now the wasp is feeding and taking care of her heirs. In some weeks, new females will emerge and the colony will expand. The timespan between the older and more recent photos is about one month 1 – The nest with only a few cells. * 2 – New cells being made with mashed fibers and saliva. * 3 – A caterpillar was caught and is being chewed to feed the larvae. * 4 – Feeding the larvae. * 5 – Using the wings as a fan to cool down the larvae. * 6 – The wasp guarding her heirs. By Alvesgaspar – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3872148

I will not ask for what I want;
I wouldn't dare presume.
I shut my hope away to haunt
a locked and bolted room.

What am I is I ask to see,
when blessèd are the blind?
Could I allow mysef to be
so faithless and unkind?

Besides, he said—his word is sure—
the clean of heart see God,
and well he knows my heart heart impure,
so I shall see him not.

But blest are they that have not seen!
If I could but believe.
For sure, those meadows fresh and green
would give me some reprieve

from longing that will only grow,
though it pass not my lips,
to see what no one else could show
and none can counterfeit.

Yet something that will not be mocked
cries, “Lord, I want to see!”
until you come where doors are locked
and show your wounds to me.

Doubting Thomas – Google Art Project By Unknown – illuminator – hgFUz6bXaLmUQQ at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22185693

There's movement in your empty house;
they're cleaning it to sell,
your life stripped off and blown about
like shingles in a gale.

Your daughter says it's eighteen months
since all your storms have ceased.
They'll fix the house like it was once,
and maybe you'll have peace.

You held your anger like a light,
and like a light it burned
a comfort in the lonely night,
all other comfort spurned.

She says you broke at last and called—
you'd cut us off by then,
ensconced in silence like a wall.
Was that our punishment?

You built that wall up stone by stone,
all stacked and mortared tight.
God bless all those who die alone,
and you alone were right.

No hurricane could bring it down
'til Gabriel should blow
a trumpet seven times around
the walls of Jericho.

But God who saw inside those rooms
where you lived on alone
can make even the rubble bloom
when all our winds have blown.

Waurika Oklahoma Tornado Front-Lit Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=850422

Unnumbered as the sands,
untraceable as rain,
our tears have fallen in your hands,
each one a separate pain.

And yet you know them all,
O Wisdom deep and deep,
for out of nothingness you called
the very eyes that weep.

You gather every one,
each drop of doubt and dread,
and number them as you have done
the hairs upon our heads.

As you have known the stars
and call them all by name,
you know our sorrows and our scars,
and make them yours the same.

So every sparrow's fall
you've taken as your own.
Lord, into every grave you've crawled;
our dying you have known

that we may know your rise.
The wounds and tears you got
you carry where the sparrow flies:
the altar of our God.

Sand from Pismo Beach, California. Components are primarily quartz, chert, igneous rock, and shell fragments. Photo By Wilson44691: Mark A. Wilson, Department of Geology, The College of Wooster – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4436177

Today, hell cries out groaning
the grave itself falls ill.
How loud the voice of stone here
that so long had been still!

The maw that fed on Abel
and gaped to swallow Cain
finds nothing on its table:
The feast is swept away.

Another son of Adam
himself lays down as bread
to feed the endless fathom
that long on Adam fed,

and biting down, and choking,
is hell itself disgorged.
The doors of death are broken,
and life is pouring forth!

So every post and fortress
of hell on living ground
shall feel its dying throes yet.
They all shall be cast down!

For all this ground is shaking,
awaking those inside.
A light on us is breaking,
and death itself has died!

St. George’s Church, Haguenau, Alsace, painted wood, 1496 By © Ralph Hammann – Wikimedia Commons – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=63915573

This world keeps rearranging
my every push and pull,
when I would hold unchanging
and imperturbable:
Lord, let me keep my rituals,
though all else goes to hell.
If we have drink and victuals,
all manner shall be well.

See, Saturday's for donuts,
whatever comes to pass,
and has been so since Covid
closed meet-ups and the Mass,
since I could put my mask on,
grab coffee piping hot,
and drink it in the bright sun
out in the parking lot.

I still go every weekend,
as regular as clocks:
Through wind and rain and heatwave
I make my exodus,
and even if it's snowing
I get one spinach tart
and one old-fashioned donut,
as manna for my heart.

Take not from me, O Father,
this ordinary rite,
this gift of flour and water
and moment of delight.
Though this be nothing holy,
no heav'nly Eucharist,
it's earthly comfort wholly—
O, bless it, God, for this.

Doughnuts in a display case at a coffee shop By WestportWiki – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=24823025

The fog that shrouds a quiet street
and touches Monday's gloom
with ordinary mystery
will burn away by noon.

These dandelions lift their face
to watch returning flocks
'til other flowers take their place
and breezes blow the clocks.

Like anger surging in the blood
or this deep-set despair,
the sudden rushing of flash floods,
the storm that clears the air:

This henbit gazing at the sky,
lets loose its purple tongue
to sing of praise and then to die—
so all our songs are sung.

This is our sorrow and our joy:
All things shall pass away
except the dim and distant morn
that whispers lasting day,

and it will bud a rising sun 
and blossom into noon
and sing while endless ages run—
O, Lord, may it be soon!

Henbit Nashville, Tennessee By Kaldari – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8640496

The green-gold glimmer of a crow-black wing;
the grackles in a great Hitchcockian flock;
the myriad starlings' single living thing
ascending as I turn onto the block;
the bright burnt orange an insouciant robin shows
against the tawny grass just greening there,
reclaiming what was lost to these last snows;
the killdeers' clatter as they take the air:
	have brought the dull and leaden year alive
	to quiver with each quickening, flashing wing,
	and earthbound I am lifted right along,
	borne up by the relentless throbbing drive,
	the turning, tumbling, rich upthrusting spring
	awakened by the day's full-throated song.

American Crow. Hockanum River Linear Trail. East Hartford, CT USA By Paul Danese – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=156236872