Here we have a spotted lanternfly, 
one of the many blithely covering 
Cincinnati in a vision of crimson. 
They may strike you as a healthy 
accessory to Kentucky’s cardinal, 
but the vibrant swirl of their back 
carries the visage of some demon, 
whited-out eyes and ebony horns
extending into its top appendages. 

They are not guests but invaders, 
disrupting the native ecosystems 
by spitting honeydew that, to us, 
is a sweet gloss but to the grapes,
almonds, oaks, cherries, poplars 
induces soot-like mold to claim 
flora not yet marked for the end. 

Their establishment in the city 
paints the sky in warm shades, 
flashes of ochre and vermilion. 
But alluring as their wings are,
each is half of an autumn leaf,
half of a dying ray of a sunset,
decay arriving giddy and early.

To dispose of them, you must 
search for their appearance in
all forms of grouphood at any 
location in every stage of life.
Their rot is not wished away, 
but accurately identified and
then limited in its exposure, 
healed by strengthening the
flowers once made to wilt.