Poem: Flies

The carcasses of flies litter the floor
always near the windows. You’re convinced
that somehow the house is spawning them
 
that something in the vent breathes up flies.
But I’ve seen them clutch at the houseboards,
the doorpanes in speckled droves, waiting
 
for the chance that frees them from the cold.
We never count the door’s many swings
to let the cat out then in, to
 
pour the offerings into the leaves
to leave for our daily work, then come home.
Each opening a chance, each closing
 
a fate sealed, thousands of times per day.
They press themselves against the glass for this
one pure moment. Shouldn’t we do the same?
Advertisements

About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
This entry was posted in poetry, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s