They all want in,
every damned wingéd thing wants in —
even as summer lunges back for a week
they say, moths peck on my panes, flies
hurry in like children to a puppy,
lady beetles alight in my hair now
armored — an orange prickling helmet.
Even leaves, in the same crisp denial
huddle in the corner
of the mudroom, mad as hell
and chattered as a winter jaw.
And as I opened the door again,
to shoo them away, to release them
to their own frigid demise,
I nearly, so nearly crushed
a woolybear balled on the threshold
like a loyal dog, asleep
in the slim heats that ooze
below the ill-fitting door.

Image: Glen Carrie on Unsplash

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