the world and I are kin

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the world and I are kin

The ladybug on the porch-front railing, black 
on red on white-wash white,
is still. 
           A folded stack 
of mountains, patched in dappled light 
and shade, is balding
                                  below
a cloud that clearly forgot 
the nature of clouds, 
smeared straight across
the sky without any puff or swirl or shape. 

Strange place, this world,
this spinning stillness of space, 

and stranger still 
that I understand, 
am understood.   

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