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Friday, September 20, 2019

Requiem for a Young Fly


I'm not even sure how you slipped in—
I’m always exceptionally careful, 
especially 
when the slanted arms of the sun 
gather 
the fading green tint 
of grass and leaves,
and the black-eyed susan
is the only one left standing guard 
against the early morning chill.

I am always super-aware 
of solitary hoverings that long 
to sneak inside my house 
for warmth and unswept morsels
scattered beneath my feet.

We had quite a dance, you and I— 
I must admit there were times
you got the best of me. 

I applaud your swiftness
and quiet perseverance—
so unlike the fat ones
who make the loudest buzz
but can hardly lift a wing.

At first your youth startled me—
your playful daring taunted me.
But then, I heard my mother’s voice.
You are bigger than a fly,
than an ant,
You are stronger than a mean girl 
or brutish boy.

I swung again. You disappeared.

Outside, nothing is different:
summer rays wane;
black-eyed susans stand.
Only I am changed 
by your unexpected visit—
left alone to ponder 
on a quiet, late-summer morning
how something so small 
and almost-silent,
could summon distant giants.