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American Life in Poetry: Column 509
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
We are never without our insect companions, even in winter, and here’s one who has the run of the house. Roger Pfingston lives in Indiana. December
Lodged tight for days
in a corner of the wall,
ladybug can’t resist the tree,
crawling now over cold
light, ceramic fruits,
tinsel lamb and sleigh.
Flies out of the tree
to try rum cake on a
plate of caroling cherubs.
Ends up on her back,
wings flared, silly girl
spinning over the kitchen floor.
Later, between the blinds,
tiny bump of silhouette:
a stillness against the falling snow.
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