A week ago, while reading in my chair,
the vernal sunshine beckoned me to start
the ceiling fan, and open to warm air
the door of glass beside me. Looking down
I noticed withered bugs or dust motes there.
I took a cloth and swept them off the wood.
My index finger pressed the threshold where
it meets the frame. It didn’t fall apart,
but it depressed, rain-sodden, begging care.

(Magic 9)