She fanned her wings against the wind,
Her feeble gestures lacklustre now,
Lacking conviction, for she was doomed.
The fire in her eyes fading with every wingbreath,
Her soul stuttering in and out at every dip.
She felt the warmth of a fire,
Breaching the fine particles of ice,
And she beat those fragile wings a little harder,
Every stroke bringing her closer to the life-giving embers.
But her tired body, wings and all,
Craved rest. Nearer she grew to the Source
And harder the flight became.
She wanted Salvation, though she knew it not by that name,
But her feeble wings, oh their feeble breaths wracked her frame.
Soul stuttering in and out,
Still the wasp flew farther from the cold.
Flew to the heat, to the calling in her every fiber,
Attuning her body to the compass of her surroundings.
Still the cold wasp flew.