by: Roger Pfingston
Lodged tight for days
in a corner of the wall,
ladybug can't resist the tree,
crawling now over cold
light, ceramic fruits,
tinsel lamb and sleigh.
Flies out of the tree
to try rum cake on a
plate of caroling cherubs.
Ends up on her back,
wings flared, silly girl
spinning over the kitchen floor.
Later, between the blinds,
tiny bump of silhouette:
a stillness against the falling snow.
_______________________________
The first day of December.
In four days, my daughter will turn 18 years old. Unbelievable. I know parents say this all the time, but I have no idea where all this time has gone. It was just yesterday that we brought her home from the hospital in her yellow bunting. I was terrified. I had this tiny, fragile creature to take care of. Who depended on me for everything.
Eighteen years, gone in a blink.
That's why I chose this poem for today. It's about the fragility of life in winter. Color in the middle of blankness.
Saint Marty is grateful for his beautiful ladybug of a daughter.
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