Winter fruit

Our all things turn mud houses
Manufactured by wasp mothers.
They get scraped off and return
With new ones near computers,
Where words are manufactured.

Wasp does not sting our bodies
Only provoke thought for poems.
Wasp is words ripe for a picking
Unsaid and said, in a tree far off,
The tree bearing our winter fruit.

Wasp is untruth in colonial novel,
Also a real stinging one flying in
Through window near computer
Where words are manufactured.
All things said it is a winter fruit.

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