by Danielle Sobaski
Too late in the season for a ladybug there it is crawling on a leaf the color of sun tea, I haven’t seen that tea since I was a kid on my father’s back porch. Haven’t seen him either, he hates me or I hate him, so long I don’t remember who hates who. It still matters to me what he said and the things he never said. The lady bug has moved on but the sun tea leaf still sits there. No wind, well not enough to move the leaf from its resting. Not cold enough to move me either but my butt is numb, I should stand. Yet I can’t stand and write, so here I sit wasting lead and trees ‘cause I can’t write regardless. So many write and move mountains but as I write that leaf still sits there mocking me. I should move on, my next adventure awaits for my lead and trees to be wasted this time in a language that is not my own. But before I leave I stomp on the leaf and ground it into dust, remnants of who it was, so at least I can make an impact on today.