The wasps are in the windfalls,
Take care, my dear, don’t touch!
Late summer’s fruits are over-ripe,
Her glut of gifts too much.
Her throbbing warmth, her blazing reds,
Her humming, fragrant breeze
Bemuse the fruits and passions ’til
They rot beneath the trees.
Soon winter’s cold will put to sleep
Her pulsing love affair.
The wasps are in the windfalls,
Take care, my dear, take care.
– Muriel Jarvis Ackinclose
