It's March and it's spring.
What choice does it have but to slip out?
From the crack on the ground
Where ice has melted
Where grass has turned green.
It must be blind not to see
Raging feet as the bell rings,
Stomping on puddles, kicking balls,
Crushing its kind until a child stops
And gently pushes it back into the crack.
Now ain't that one lucky unscathed ladybug?