A ladybird at the light moves to it and to it in a static fizz of wanting--
the  promise denied,
            she rests  at the wall,
                        flagellated, and then


moves again to the light, with wanting. Soon she will penetrate
            the plastic shade,  
                        and, having reached the light,
                                     die of wanting.


The spirit of a change comes in squeezes of effort. It is a trial
            of bent knees
                        and open wills—
                                    to turn the dirt,



and plant some other crop, to cultivate corn where there have been potatoes,
            to cultivate generosity
                       where there has been pride—            
                                    is clean, hard work.


The Indians got on their knees and buried dead fish in the earth to yield up
good squash,
            making a fresh harvest
                        where other crops
                                     have ceased to thrive.


Caroline Randall Williams is a Harvard graduate with a degree in English. As an aspiring writer, she is interested in the narrative exploration of the biological, emotional and spiritual elements of womanhood.