Country of the Dragonflies

In the country of the dragonflies
a yellow kayak steers
around small ceremonies
of gift and wingbeat,
its sides scratching the husks
of summer.

It encroaches. It’s a voice
calling out
on a quiet Sunday, unbidden,
unwelcome. It follows what little
water there is,
breaking what’s fragile, the blade’s
careless swipes working deeper
into the cluttered reeds.

On the other side of the world,
in the country of the luminous,
your face emerges
softer
and more perfect
than I remember,

an open watercourse
moving
with quickwater sureness.
Nothing I say,
nothing I do
will disturb what’s already unkempt
and free. What’s already
a little bit
reckless .

Wilderness – (how your hair
catches the
half-light!) –
we bow to each other
and enter
swiftly.

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Country of the Dragonflies

  1. nnicole says:

    This is intersting and vivid.

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