Come April

When opening a window again come April
one sees on its ledge
the littered remains from last October’s
huddled inhabitants,
those relics from a summer almost forgotten.
Tucked among dusty leaves,
paper thin and brittle, perfectly preserved,
the wasp shares its
common grave with a moth about to turn
into a puff of smoke
now that it has finally embraced the light.
Conserved and numerous,
like pawns randomly toppled on their sides
across a chessboard,
flies of all sizes feign readiness to awaken.
Occasionally, there will be
a spider, too, with eight legs neatly folded,
but usually, just a web,
its winding-sheet the only skeleton left.
Meanwhile, on the outside,
infused with a fresh appetite for life,
their incurious cousins,
paying no heed, think only to repopulate.


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