Some people can write a poem
That may be only a few lines long
Still saying more than I can
In a few hundred, and I wonder
How? When I try so hard
To keep it short and contained
Like a well pruned garden imaginarium
That still ends up overgrown.
Weeds and tares mix roots with intention
That must be counted as part of the portrait
Of the process of growing ideas.

Then on this precious bloom alights
A ladybug of the orange kind
That deserves an honorable mention
Because I bet you didn’t know they might bite
In the whimsical moment it crawls on your hand.
It doesn’t really hurt
But it does force a curiosity.
What in these tiny cells that are building blocks
For my skin that’s just another earth to a bug
Made it want to insert its itty-bitty teeth in?
I get the mosquito thirsting for blood
And the bumblebee fighting for its life
But this ladybug? I don’t get it
Something so cute shouldn’t have that vicious side
Like the graceful swan that will kill you.
Bet you didn’t know that either.

The world seems a much more dangerous place
Than I initially realized, better stay inside
And that must be why the weeds grow.
I’m not there to keep it clean and organized.
And maybe that’s part of why I can’t write a short poem,
Because I really do like to see what grows.