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I will never see my children,
they will never gaze on me.
I'll have died
when they're emerging next July.
So it must be.
Yet, when they behold the home
I'm digging now for their protection,
safe and snug
far underground, they'll recognize my deep affection.
When they hatch and find a caterpillar,
stung and paralyzed,
left by me
for them to eat they'll know as well that I was wise.
When they learn I dragged it there
in spite of every interference,
weeds and rocks
and thieving beetles, they'll discern my perseverance. While cocooned,
they pass the winter
safe from snow ice and chill,
they'll perceive
and thank me for my formidable digging skill. By the time they're ready, next
July,
to climb up from their cells
and break from the burrow's seal
and fly away, my young will know me well. When they care for their own children,
never to be looked upon,
they'll feel my love in replica and know that they, in turn, were cherished
by the mother digger wasp whose face and form they never saw.
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