A lady bug flies at my green coat,
open door and an arm full of pastries.
Another crawls from floor to ceiling,
perfect circle of red, spotted black
with more essentially perfect circles
seeking some sip of dew
on the window in the morning.
Mer released a thousand of them
from a paper bag they got on buy nothing
to eat the aphids on the rose bush.
They feel responsible:
mist them when they pale
feed them bites of pear and prune juice.
And you say you’re lucky,
believing in the magic
of a two dollar scratch off win,
gathering friends like flowers
you press in the pages
of a Jane Valentine book
to cherish them forever
in their dusty, fragile beauty.
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