The wind-blown rain-driven leaf plastered to the doorjamb
is a moth, wings spread wide, a leaf-like moth;
serrated edges of its silken grey-brown wings
dusted with cinnamon-colored markings
cause it to resemble a dead oak-leaf fallen on cement basement steps
visited by slugs and pillbugs, an occasional toad, come summer,
small moths drawn to the lighted doorway.
The bug stays for days perched on its doorpost
awaiting the return of warm spring weather,
braced against cold nights, fastened to cracked chalky white paint
like an arrowhead pointing our way.
Seasons change, dead things come alive again.