Winter Wind

Leaf-laden lately, beech limbs once reached
the ground, swaying. Lightened now, choreic, bare,
they twitch. An abandoned wasp nest
scuds across the yard. The nest is dashed
against the garden shed and drops to rest
among discarded flowerpots, each smashed
to shards so long ago the sun has bleached
them gray. It totters, then lodges there,
gray, too, and trapped among the shards. Held fast
and peeled, its catacombed, translucent skin
is flung away in layers, drifting like ash,
catching on bark, raised roots, spent tufts of grass
until the labyrinth within?
floats ply by tight-wound ply away at last.