All winter
the fruit flies
have survived
in our kitchen.
Whatever I know
of fruit flies suggests
they should not
have lived
through the cold.
They never have
made it to February before.
I find them in my wine glasses,
in my tea cups,
one a week or so.
I know that every
living thing is wired
to go on—some mysterious
drive in us says
Live, live. I have
felt it myself
when held too long underwater
or when lost in the woods.
Is this why
I do not try to kill them,
these fruit flies,
though I am repulsed
by their tiny insatiable hunger?
Their name means dew lover.
I, too, am hungry—
I, too, have learned
to adapt to cold.
To adjust is more
practical than to hope.
All winter, in my cups,
there’s a taste of dew,
of learning to thrive.