our first day in ohio hundreds of ladybugs swarmed the front porch.
they landed on each ledge and all five metal chairs. they swung on the porch swing.
and then they died.
i crunched out onto the porch to be in a quiet place. the trees bare and the purebred birds flitting and calling. the sun on the rust leaves, on the rust cans.
but more ladybugs flew up.
their uneven flight patterns made me uneasy somehow.
i turned around and went back inside.
a prophet once asked god’s people how they could live in well-paneled houses while the temple lie in ruins. i checked through the windows each morning and wished their dead, winged crunch weren’t still there, but it was.
so i did other things.
i had other things to do.
but this is how temple walls get rebuilt.
i got out the broom. i faced them head on. i swept dead ladybug carcasses off the end of the porch to join the gravel below.
this is how temple walls get rebuilt.
to go out where hawks circle and bees hum close to your mug of warmed wine.
you fight for your quiet places.
i have better things to do, lord knows.
so do you.
but if i don’t kick through the orange and black kernels dotting this porch today, right now, then i’ll keep on paneling well my own walls.
i’ll near to obsess over my lack and forget about the gold and silver leant to those who labor to bring a temple from ruins.