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Dāna (Giving Without Hope of Return)

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By Joan Dashwood

The wasp
Mistook the platform of the water lily
For dry ground.
His wings, so weighted with unaccustomed moisture
He floundered helplessly,
His aggression lost in the struggle for survival.
I put a finger under the wriggling little body —
And he was lying kicking on the grass.
Slowly he moved his water-heavy wings as if in amazement,
Then, five minutes preening
And he was off in a buzzing flight, not staying to say “thank you”.
I smiled,
Surely the gratitude was in the flight?


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