winter wasp

there is a slow-moving wasp
on the wintered sidewalk
wearied by weeks
of sleet and snow

robbed of flight
he inches toward a shrub
still green, in the long shadow
of spring’s memory

sure, I’ve been stung before
felt the searing shock
and reddening rush
of unjust pain

but winter has tempered
any lingering grudge
besides, what would I gain
to trample a ghost?