Coccinelle

There’re more answers I don’t have

than answers I do, in fact, have.

I don’t actually know

who man is

what his purpose his

and why life ends the way it does

only that it does

eventually

for everyone.

Once thing, however, I know, with considerable amounts of personal certainty:

I’ve always loved the word ‘coccinelle’.

Always.

It’s French and means ladybug. I love it.

And I presume

its dots came from a little shower of ink

when the little coccinelle walked by the old man one day.

He was, as usual, writing,

forming, as usual, new worlds of words.

The old man was probably surprised

to see that little red dot on the white between the black

and splattered ink all over the page,

where my little coccinelle was going for an evening stroll.

Probably.

You see, friend,

I don’t actually need to know

whether its dots came from the ink of the pen of the old man at the desk

or from the horse in the meadows that shat on it

or both

or neither.

I may not need to know who man is

just that I’m woman (by the world’s binary standards anyway)

and what man’s purpose is

just that I get to create bits and pieces of my own (sometimes)

and that it ends the way it does when it does

– a long way down the road if I’m lucky.

And because I don’t know either

whose side luck’s on, I shall adhere to what I know with considerable amounts of personal certainty:

little coccinelles give me wonder and awe,

and make me breathe in just deeply enough to be inspired to write.

And maybe the stories I have to offer

might just be enough

for now.