Paper Hives

The paper hive hung all November long,
a landmark of spherical woody pulp
uncovered by an old Autumn’s barrenness.

It was our story for days and weeks,
and then it fell, swept from its high limb
by wind or rain or hungry birds.

We watched it in the flickering sun
day by day, fluttering on the ground
as it tore and disappeared.

It was our story for days and weeks
until I couldn’t tell it anymore; we would
wait for Spring and find a new one.

Now our eyes scan and search
this rhythmless season, this unmetered verse,
for budding greens and papered homes,

for all the new places our stories will be grown.


Glowing in the moonlight,
hollowing, their bulk shriveling
in the melting temperatures,
their now blank faces staring
into nothing, hats sinking,
scarves sagging, skinny necks
and empty shoulders speak of scarcity.
Now their stickarms point downward from their bellies.
Collecting in the sunlight,
sparkling, shrouds of fresh snow
in the freezing temperatures,
their ice bones take on a ghostly radiance
and we see through them from one side
to the other, without eyes,
without nose, without mouth,
their undistractedness speaks of focus.
Now the blank face of winter points to abundance.