Little Buds, the End of March

There’s a ladybug in my lap, and I can’t argue with her loveliness; driven there by her awkward landing in my hair, with a buzzing collide not unlike that of a sudden good mood, so tender and ephemeral after it has dived headlong into recognition. The sun setting slowly, and Spring playing with my mind, untwining my hair and my Winter as I walk outside.

I’m voracity spent, wandering on a Spring night, the trees still bare enough to see the glimmering stars. I’m the child whose games are deadly serious, altering her mother to this reality by her solemn, forlorn looks. I’m crying inky tears, waking up slowly on mornings when the mist gathers on the soft shoulders of the mountains.

It’s the fates we can’t escape from that make us who we are. No use deciding what part we’ll play, for far too many roles will reach empty hands across the stage, each eager and urgent in its own way to be fulfilled, dramatized, needing just our voice to make them live. And I refuse to be limited by my own self-expectations. What I should be, the road to which paved by what I am, ever remains to be seen, and I will strive to no longer discard the tender everyday. The battered concrete, the unkempt bit of earth between street and landscape, the awkward brightness of man-made against a dull awakening Spring; they are not as they should be, as I, yet worth regarding, worth incorporating into my image of existence. The perception inside makes them alive, one moment at a time, just as my barely sprouting self, regarding the world from under a patchwork coat of identity-trying, really lives by what it hopes, not by what it’s been.