Ladybug
Most mornings she lands on the window,
the window along the stairwell. Six sticky legs
tapping vertical glass, wings tucked
beneath her crimson cape.
It’s a strange place to dance alone.
Beyond her: the tree limbs, heads of the cosmos,
calendula petals, worlds in their folds, reflecting
on this distant landscape, the cold glass
through which I study her underbelly.
I tap the window and she stops,
the way we all do when something beyond us
gives us pause; we wait
with heightened awareness, unable
to make sense of the source or meaning,
despite something being right there
across some transparent plane, possibly
wondering if we can comprehend anything
Greater. And if so, would we believe it?
Judy Ray writes poetry and science fiction to help her explore existential wonder, power dynamics, consciousness, and belief systems. She is based in North Carolina.
Amethyst Review 