LADYBUG'S GARDEN                    

DF  07.26

​

I came to the garden with books in my hand,

believing in

beanstalks

built on

care,

sun,

and

skill

 

I studied the rules,

learned the language of kings,

and trusted the promise:

talent + effort makes wings
 

Meritocracy, I discovered,

slivered in gold thread,

chased by white knights,

by Kings, darkly spread

 

A beautiful word,

a polished disguise,

a mirror that praises itself,

blind to the eyes

 

The morning history deformed,

all people’s freedom

got packed up and lent

to the ultimate knee bent

 

I watched the gates shift and pathways rearrange

The pages I’d studied, the rights I assumed,

were suddenly so fragile, so easily removed

Those born with keys called the locks “a game”

 

I wandered down

                           rabbit holes,

                                                      searching for truth

       in other worlds,

                                  through

                                                              gardens

  of time,

                                the grit

                                                   of trees,

               and grace

                                            of ladies

                                                               that bug

 

I write this poem for one,

for down the rabbit hole she flew,

carrying her spots like quiet truths,

landing on a freckled toadstool

 

Whispering below to the caterpillar,

trees arched down, listening deep

old clocks awakened from centuries’ sleep

Quiet truths are loud to bent ears:

 

Under the hedge where the shadows creep,

a stink bug has stirred from a bitter sleep

He wears red armor, claims to be wise,

selling his haze for a new sunrise

 

The louder he shouts, the more they applaud

Anger seems sweeter than truth once a crowd

He smirks as he curdles cream at the Mad Tea affair,

building new suspicions in the air

 

The Queen of Hearts cried, “Off with his scent!”

But outrage is too profitable, outrage is rent

The stink bug is discovering, as tyrants often do,

that attention itself is an addictive brew

 

The ladybug fly-hops toward the unseen,

spreading hope where wounds had been

What do you want: a crown, a throne, they asked her

A garden where we don’t feel alone, her answer

 

Through Looking Glass fields and seasons that pass,

I watched every kingdom become its own glass

The bugs left their marks, the flowers remained,

some planted gardens, some harvested pain

 

And now I return with my books still in hand,

but no longer believing every map of the land

For wisdom is not in the titles we earn,

but in the courage to question and learn

 

The garden remembers, as gardens often do,

who planted compassion, who poisoned the dew

The stink bug may echo, the loudest may reign,

but spring belongs to those who grow hope again