A dingy ladybug just slammed

into this split-ended web of grass

as if shot from an organic cannon

 

for a miniature net. Nonplussed,

she has seemed to decide

to climb to its frizzy top

 

and fling herself,

to no applause whatsoever,

toward the sharp tip of a taller,

 

naked shaft nearby—

there, to re-form and sway

in the slightest breeze.

 

I say she has seemed, because

I don’t know whose life it is, 

anyway. It’s all about me,

 

of course: earlier,

I found myself atop

a mental mountain (you know, 

 

surveying the lesser peaks?),

then flung myself for this poem,

fluttering into the snare

 

of choosing this or going with that

as if I determined all my decisions,

all along the live-long day.

 

But I know me: soon enough

I’ll fold my wings

to re-form a spotted shell,

 

and it will seem I’ve decided

to head down that one long blade,

then, to no applause, up another.