Weary. The edges of window sills,
graced by southern sun, have drawn 
these ladybugs to a wintery death.
 

They lie beyond exhaustion. Too small,
their fragrance merely echoes those of
bats wakened in these walls, caught
between sleep and snows without
mosquito, sustenance – noses wrinkle
in brief moments of distaste, disgust.

Strange these perfumes of love and death. Lovers, 
too, sniff pre-coital necks, post-coital sheets.

Friends recommend vacuuming hard shells,
but I lift each one in weekly memorial,
placing stiffened corpses in plastic,
one by one. Their weakened armor collapses
between fingers, offering a final bouquet
of futility. All surfaces smoothly wiped
white and clean except for the window above
the book stack that clanks and falls in early
hours and draws me from sleep to search for
bats or lovers chasing sun in my darkened home.

I leave this window of husks above books, behind 
the chair facing tv, stereo, favorite paintings 
hanging just too far to caress, until Spring. Then 
I open windows, gather what lost scents yet linger
from another winter of swiftly passing forms, cleanse
flesh in embracing showers, replacing scent for scent,
in hopes a soft brush of air or flesh – small, smaller,
smallest – will return to fill these empty walls.
 

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James Kelewae