Ladybugs of winter

I crawled into my bed last night. I was not, however, the only thing crawling in my bed. As I pulled back my blanket, there was a ladybug, all but trembling at being discovered. At first, I was just surprised to see it there. Winter still has her fangs; why is this beautiful thing still about?

Sliding a slip of paper beneath it, I moved it to a safe spot on my book shelf. How did it come to be in my bed? I still have no idea. But it seems to serve a wonderful purpose.

Sorrow has been a near friend to me lately. Winter’s blade teeters above me like the Sword of Damocles. And Spring, she is so very far.  Yet, and now I am reminded, reprimanded of my nescience, by a fair ladybug that in the midst of Winter’s, sorrow’s, fury, beauty and joy may still be found.

Faithfully, we may bear our sorrow while still seeing beauty — which is quisquous to say given my own love of Winter’s beauty. Surely, I am not alone in finding myself lost in the darkness and wail of sorrow. I know I’m not alone in that.

Still, it is no reason for the snow to be bedimmed. It glimmers white and pure. My tears cannot be allowed to tarnish it. Let me never forget that ladybugs of Winter are still to be unsnowed.

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