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.