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
when the slanted arms of the sun
gather
the fading green tint
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
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
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.
Comments
Post a Comment