I am like this beetle,
tentative and a little blue,
or is that the reflection of sky
on her back or is it
the reflection of my cup
as she wanders toward
my warm hand?
I sit in the frayed lawn chair
before today’s winds
that are supposed to rip up
trees and roofs. She
paces from my hand
to my shoulder so easily
whispering in my ear:
take better care of yourself,
and I feel the first breeze
before the storm comes,
I feel her antennae
caressing my cheek,
this the second day of spring
though already I’m worrying
the apple tree will freeze,
and she says: hush,
the blossoms will come,
but please carry me back
on your soft palm
and place me under
the juniper tree
where my sisters and I live,
gently, gently.
