The Dancer

Say you came once as a dragonfly,
a one-inch serpent-twig, the suspended "I,"

its double pair of barely air-dried wings
sewing one moment to the next. Quietness

makes it clear: it's not an exact equation,
the weight of clouds and the dusty mirror

of the pond. The nymphs are always hatching.
Something is always disturbing the surface,

changing the leeway: future perfect, past
imperfect, this green ocean of air in between.

- Margaret Holley