On my white windowsill
among dainty tea cups,
a ceramic bird house, a
blue and white vase from France,
lies something dead.

As he flew past, for it is an insect,
was he dazzled by these objets
d’art as he sought to free himself
from the confines of the house?

The crane fly is a beauty
has he procreated already?
He lies folded up like an
origami soldier,
diaphanous wings at rest.
A body so slender
you wonder how
all the parts fit inside.

What purpose have I
here on this earth? To
eat peaches as they
ripen on the tree?
The crane fly eats too:
algae, smaller insects,
and lays its eggs upon
the water.

The burial is formal.
I carry him outside on
a white paper napkin
hold it up in the air
on this clear day in June
and let the wind take him
where it will.

He is gone in a moment,
sunk on the grass where
he gracefully disappears
his duty done.

– Ruth Deming