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.