The Blue Book

Ladybug Lamplight

The night is alive,
so much so that it walked with me,
wandering from home
to another gathering of strangers
where a prayer for peace
was underlined by distant thunder
as we stood on the edge of faith,
exhausted, exhilarated by the view,
by the feeling that maybe it is life:

That the darkness does breathe,
that the ladybug on my pillow,
waiting for my return,
defiantly red in the lamplight,
unadorned in its thereness -
no decoration on its shell bar one
dotted circle - really is an epileptic enso
and another hint about eternity.