The wasp I saw working on Sunday
ignored me and went about its business
of gathering whatever it is that wasps need
from the cluster of small white flowers

near the door to the sanctuary of a church
full of music and preaching and pure light
from little flickers of Pentecost fire
burning through stained glass high up
with Jesus rising above the suffering world

out there somewhere but not here, not here
where confidence and assuredness reign
and at least the appearance of all rightness
sits side by side in comfortable pews


and one completely confident lady
under a pure white broad brimmed hat
sits ramrod straight and comfortably mute
with no need at all for the water and the blood
from the Rock of Ages to cleft for her
and almost certainly unaware of the beauty
of a single busy wasp doing what wasps do
not far from where she sits on Sunday.