The A&K Files: How Dragonflies Fall

Sitting in Robby's backyard this hot summer weekend, I noticed some beautiful burnished orange dragonflies gliding in the warm wind. I was fascinated watching them; two adjoined with another smaller one floating right behind.

I know I've been accused of being a poet, but I ain't making this stuff up.

I watched them, thinking how two halves make two wholes, then three, mindful of their moments in the sun.

And then I remembered a poem I wrote…

Dragonflies Fall

As we walked inside a favorite well lit place,

I noticed them huddled together on bar stools

like vagrants sleeping in long winter alleys,

or teenagers parked on dark summer roads,

or dragonflies joined afloat in spring winds lift.

Their inner arms are somewhat interconnected,

caressing each other's necks and backs while

opposite elbows are pinned to the mahogany bar

for fear they might slip away from each other

through the cracks in the hardwood floor to be

reabsorbed by the aged earth where moments

are measured in millennia and all stories ever told.

They hold chilled pint glasses half-full of idealistic

afterthoughts, like safety lines from a cliff edge.

We order our beers, and I look at you and say,

"Dragonflies fall through the center of the earth

like burnished amber in fading autumn sunsets,"

then I stroke your cheek and kiss your warm lips

and you wonder what they think of, watching us

fall.

And now we fall as three, mindful of our presence in the sun.