I tell my daughter winter killed the wasps
and throw a well-aimed stone, we both jump back

as the nest falls, as if it wasn’t true
and wait—for nothing. She wants to go,

but I say, “Look! It’s broken!” On the snow,
entombed, dead wasps, some plan has gone awry,
                                          
she won’t come near, she looks away,
she points out a new bird, but I still need

to make her wonder if the sleeping queen
survives, woven into the maze of her children.

We bring the broken nest back to the car,
it rustles in my hand, it’s only wind

inside the ruined walls, and I pretend,
like her, that I don’t notice.