HERE WE ARE

Laura Stamps

During the last week
of November, ladybugs hatch
in the eves of the house,
hurling themselves against windows
and doors, hundreds
of festive guests dressed
in the red and black of the season.
Not unlike this gerbera daisy
still blooming in late November,
flexing its scarlet wings beneath
the white eye of morning frost
and the sun’s day-glo leaves,
while the holidays wave their fire-sticks,
gloomy personalities looming large,
and ghosts from seasons past rise
and flap their soiled robes at us all.
Curious, isn’t it, how cleverly
we sculpt our lives?
As if chiseling a sculpture from the blue
marble of our thoughts and actions.
We are all sculptors—
some creating a monument to crankiness,
others a masterpiece of joy—
a confusing task at times,
like trying to unravel the turquoise
thread of the meadowlark’s tune.
I walk through my days
as if at an artist colony, watching
the craftsmen at work—
day and night the marble takes shape,
dust-flight stinging their nostrils,
chisels in hand, tapping diligently
yet unaware—we are all
sculptors at life.