The Wasp

It’s on my skin, I am ground to it.
Long ago I decided that I am the type of ground that stays still with bated breath.
Rather than the kind that runs and screams.
Yet this little devil has made me insecure.
It takes it’s time, it comes back once I think it’s gone.
Little pattering legs remind me that I am moments away from a sharp prick.
No, I am still still.
I am the ground that fears nothing, that threatens nothing, that is nothing of remark.
I will sit here unmoving until I am left at peace, as long as that takes.
I am the ground, I will be the ground, and the wasp will treat me as such.