They come into my house as little stowaways,
in hair, or on your shoulder
quite unnoticed –
until they appear, seemingly from nowhere:
little pink refugees, bright against the carpet
or the broad warm wood floor.
They come here to die.
Even this they do daintily,
paling slightly, losing their softness
becoming a little crisp –
if possible, even,
a bit more ethereal than before.
Spring brings many invaders:
insects and pollen and roadwork.
I think I might like these best of all.