Hive

August heat invited them
to build a nest the size of a cantaloupe
in the arms of the crabapple tree.

The wasps swarm in the midday sun,
their papery house daubed
in thick layers of dried mud.

Evenings, they hide in the pitted depths,
a conch-like inner shell holding danger
in its secret, exquisite arabesque.

Dun globe of peril, the hive hangs
impervious to wind and rain, its silent
weight a motionless pendulum,

a Buddha undisturbed
by the frantic buzzing of hornets within.
We treat the venomous piñata

with poison sprays and bats,
but, like all evil, it reappears
when and where it pleases,

its devious chaos wrapped
in a ball of pocked malice.
If I stand perfectly still,

I can hear the faint, frenetic hum
of massed malevolence, a song
that lives forever in the summer air.