The fly that in my window lies

The Fly

Who cries for the fly that in the window dies.

What eyes death’s spastic twitches spy.

 

A kitchen’s desultory, dusty dance in

the face of toast, thumbs, happenstance.

 

A sunny window, a perch of dread

For Saturday morning’s discretely dead.

 

A last black shiver, a flamboyant salute

Adieu: fly’s sweet darkness is absolute.

 

Comes a week, a crust, so sweet

on a simple, unknown, piece of meat

cooled to a gentle Saturday heat.

 

Unseen, shorn, less than less

A simple husk past all distress.

 

Wizened, blackened window dirt,

Its end, as its life, unknown on earth.

 

The fly that in the window lies,

The fly that in the window dies,

 

By and by, catches my eye

And I know terror and I know why.

 

 

 

fly use

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: luzerne2112

As I get older -- and I'm 70 now -- I seem to find more and more that nature is the true source of peace, inspiration and, most of all, the truth the passeth understanding. Though my knowledge is sketchy and superficial, I wanted to share it while I can.

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