Might be the cousin of the butterfly, with a darker story, like a
monarch with a tattoo, grazing the overgrown grass for whatever it is
It's tail, assumedly the most dangerous of stingers, is in fact, simply a tail.
Wings change direction like the changing of radio stations, a constant
toggling between AM, FM, morning news, traffic reports, pop songs,
conservative family conversation, liberal special on wildlife
He never stops, this dragonfly, and as I walk from porch to mailbox to
porch I dare not look at return addresses much less the contents of
envelopes, fixing my eyes on the Mystical Purple maneuvering through
blades of dehydrated St. Augustine and spurge weed.
Will he confront me with the dropping of parcels and the confusion of
bug/human relations?, I ask.
Then as I enter the house, I begin my poetry.
I must not allow the essence of of dragonfly to end.
I pen and I paper, and I question my questions...
Am I the fly? Or is it you? No you are the blades of grass and me,
maybe I am the butterfly's cousin?
Or maybe the dragon is exactly the dragon fly and you are you and I,
well I guess I have to be me.
But if I could choose, and I most assuredly will, I would definitely
be the cicada perched on the fence that we haven't even discussed yet.