The clump of dirt comes up, half-frozen

revealing the sleepers beneath the snow:

a tiny purple centipede, the thick white bodies

of beetle larvae, unspecific maggots.

In my position of power, I consider

destroying them all in their sleep, because I can’t tell

what these things will pupate into

if they’re something that will fatally drain my flowerbed

or perhaps just fertilize and helpfully propagate.

My daughter joins me, on her knees

coos into the hole: “Baby bugs! I always wondered!”

starts imagining aloud what these indistinct, clawed worms

will look like when their wings burst forth

what colors they’ll become, the sounds they’ll make

and if they’ll visit her bedroom window

on some far-off, summer night.

©

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), and Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope).