That empty shell sitting on the table;
that exoskeleton shell of a bug
left on the table counter, waiting
for the wind to pick it up and throw it god knows where,
is me,
brown, brittle and crisp
like a fallen leaf on the ground
snapped underneath my feet as I cross the street.
One false move, or a snap of a butterfly's wing,
and I, the shell, am crused to dust
brushed off the formica with a sponge.
That beetle making its exit
across the kitchen floor
into the crack in the wall leading to freedom
filled with greener grass and white picket fences,
is you.
And I let you do it too.
That's a turn we never saw coming, the bettle and this skin;
the wanting to be a shell of a thing
hallow and delicate
beggin to tbe crushed.
But the trees all shed their leaves in the fall
and the leaf welcomes death
like an accepting mother letting her child into the world.
We rake them into piles
ignoring the grave suicide of nature.
That row of trees there,
growing side by side,
each shedding its summer weight for thinness of winter,
shaking every bit of excess,
is us.
Bare boned, barely breathing,
taking in slow breaths,
conserving energy through the cold
without mittens and scarves wrapped around our trunks
courageously baring the brunt of the world
naked.
...January 2003
