poetry

Dragonfly
by Zenaida French

Asleep on a rock
you never dreamed
the stone from some thoughtless hand
would fling you into the river;
wet wing tips beating feebly
in the current, you hang onto
a dead twig jotting out
of the water, and inch up
the slippery length
to find a perch where
you spread out your wings
to dry them
and move them slowly
up and down.

Once dry, you lift yourself
into the air again, circling, darting
here and there in playful mockery
of rain and wind
and human hand;
you disappear, twinkling
among the forest green.

O dragonfly
that hovers in the mind,
your blue-green iridescence
speaks of distances
in space and time ---
how long ago was it
since you first crawled up
to the call of the sun
out of the dark primeval
slime?

1977
(Home Life, June 1995)

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