The dragonfly larva waddled over the grass,
Black and awkward out of water, shadow
Of the bejeweled leonine beauty it would become
If it survived this stranding far from comfort.
What is it you want from these lines? What
Would make you content to peruse and reread us?
Daughter scooped up the wanderer and
Scrutinized it in her hand. She took it to the water
And watched it swim and ground itself again.
A little tap dance? A little rhyme? Earthy language?
High-flown rhetoric? Something more experimental?
Are we mad enough? Will we ever cut it, break
This shell, split these seams, unfurl our wings?
Daughter finds a recently shed exoskeletal ghost.
Daughter gets a water bottle from the car.
She wants to raise the larva. We try to tell her
In our rambling lines, if the marvelous insect
In its ugly carapace is removed from its needs
Beside this pond, the wanderer will surely die.
No comments:
Post a Comment