Stung

by Beth McDonough

Off-season presents barbs
from cold-toed morning
to the arse. It shoots up spite
from any death-ready wasp.

Beginning winter's ocean chills
with still swollen jellyfish,
 swills in tentacles spread,
a swimmer-zapping trap.

To everything its season,
yet her stung message
burns, without reason or rhyme
or any real promise of balm.