On my green pond
lily pads link roots
and leave thinking space
above drowning.

Now that I’ve aged 
 (willingly now)

I know dragonflies’ wings
represent the raised veins
on the back of my clobbered hands,
the iridecent wings. 

Why not make them
the furthest lifeline 
and live to accomplish each flight?

Every 4 years
it's their election.

Every 4 years 
I am older,
still waiting.

You play her like a piano,
stumbling over each note until
a beautiful ballad falls out. 

One day each tree will bring out
an organic grass fed napkin
and seep up the love pooling at their roots.

Each dangling apple will let go
and the struggle to fall gracefully
will be told again to the earth,
recognized to be unanimous.

I look out upon disaster
and call it beautiful. 

And all the bloody flowers
will look up and finally
let the blood
drip.