Between the Fence and the Fern

Between the fence and fern

in the back of the yard

in the cool of the dirt

on the soft moss and sod

in a universe of silt

in a narrow never-glade

in a moistened black congruence

of oxygen and shade

A never-ending cycle

of reproductive violence

the natural machinations

of Darwinian compliance

Larvae, beetles, earthworms

black and orange ants

decomposing nutrients

a lifeblood for the plants

A constantly raging battle

steadfastly unforgiving

a cyclic constitution

where the dead

support the living

From above this Earthly


all that we discern

are the gently blowing leaves

and the softly dancing fern

February, in the Warmth of the Morning Sun

I found a dead ladybug

on the sill of my window today

Just a few days prior

I witnessed her flying around my bedroom

and wondered,

trapped inside my sunny domicile,

with frost on the windows,

did she long for the warmth

of late summer days

and leafy plants on my kitchen patio?

She was a lifeless faded orange

hard, shiny, and smooth

her legs tightly tucked

into her flat underside

I slid her on to a piece of printer paper

carried her down the staircase

that goes from the bedroom to the kitchen

and placed her gently in a potted plant

in the warmth of the morning sun