She rolled armored sow bugs
in her five-year wild child
rebellion hellion hand…
flicked them at flowers
against implication
boys were better suited
to go on quests, look under rocks,
and seek the wonder there…
false logic to her thinking.
So… she mounted expeditions
armed with trowel and jelly jar
to track forest insects,
some with one hundred legs
where they swarmed in rotted logs
or the damp of black leaf mold.
Once she jarred four hundred ladybugs
…they tickled in her ears…
…she loved it.
With her parents safely dozing
she tiptoed through the house
hexing ladybugs to corners
across tables under chairs.
Bug joy showed up in the pantry,
sloshed with the daily laundry,
oozed from beneath couch cushions,
and crawled on all the windows.
Her mother knew…and frowned.
Her daddy called her Ladybug.
Bonnie Marshall
Art by Franz Hals
Proem... 
Reblogged this on The Mirror Obscura and commented:
Another study of living as proof by Ms. Marshall. >KB
Who needs a sandman when I have stories like this to send me off to sleep? Reminds me of the fish eyes I carved out of the beached carp and then kept in a jar in the garage.
Bonnie…of a billion poets, I’d recognize your voice anywhere…xxoo
Laughing…Jana…perfect! xxoo
Wonderful poem…I once was swarmed and bitten by Ladybugs and haven’t been able to see them in the same way since…!
Oh my, John. Yes, I’ve heard of this happening…killer ladybugs!! And thank you.
Gosh I love this. Reminds me of my daughter. We had to check her pockets for “stowaways” when she came inside. The loving complicity of Ladybug’s daddy, doubtless with a wink behind Mom’s back, feels mighty familiar. Thank you!!
Ah, she was a lucky little girl! Thank you.