Queen

she

crawls

cold from

winter

through

a small tear

in the screen

clings

to the glass

the heat from

the house

radiating

through

almost

but not quite

safe

invisible

in reflections 

she carries

all of them

her ancestors

she’s next in

line she bears

the burden

bringing forth

a generation

of brown wasps 

stingers intact 

with another chance

to make it right

but there

will always

be others

of a different kind

everything

she knows

is written

for a few moments

without words

on the paper

of her nest

read only by

those bred

one day

late in autumn

she is gone

with the same rain

the same wind

there at the start