broken_machine

Surviving

There are days when the fear of death
is as ubiqituous as light. It illuminates
everything. Without it, I might not
have noticed this ladybird beetle,
bright as a drop of blood
on the window' white sill.
Her head no bigger than a period.
Her eyes like needle points,
she has stopped for a moment to rest,
knees locked, wing covers hiding
the delicate lace of her wings.
As the fear of death, so attentive
to everything living, coming near her,
the tiny antennae stop moving.

poem by,
Ted Kooser