Must the damselfly
acquire butterfly wings?
“At half-life
Her life begins”
The damselfly trembles.
She has heard the trill
of troubadour’s treasures
through intemperate seasons.
Gold-dust has gathered from wisteria profusion.
Echoes sound her cartage of wings
as stone-water recesses reach-
yet, new flight hints.
Uncertain,
she leans back,
even as life flings
toward new seasons.
The indolent lake watches.
How fragile she seems,
breathing her still air -
clung, when she alights
on one swaying reed.
Weightless
the ache of suspension.
She waits;
she…waits…
a slow-bellied droplet
unspent toward water.
Only when she plummets will she soar.
Yet her wings are just tiny wings,
turned to scale, they are
dusty, sheer hide and bone
unfolded papyrus skin.
She ponders her limbs,
as water laps below.
Afternoon rain falls over her reverie.
She sleeps.
~
When she awakens she hears
water whispering: not diminished...
Each wounded carving still there,
formed in svelte, mosaic flesh.
Look:
Wisdom has burnished talismans
etched with the totality of life,
Her amulets shimmer in evening caught light.
The damselfly nods to fate iridescent.
Skin and bone still supple
though now fire-forged – majestic.
She hears tree wind whisper:
Leap! Damsel, leap!
Unfolding,
holding -
scrimshawed glories
with ample space for more stories.
Catch and lift.
First the fall
then the rise!
Well-seasoned wings
stretch in sinuous play.
Quietly,
the lake smiles its reflection,
as an expansive cerulean sky
opens
welcoming her epoch flight.
~
Butterfly wings
not required.
Adding your comment:
This is a wonderful penning, Scribe. I especially liked your fourth stanza - your use of language and metaphor. You've painted the canvas well with this piece, my Friend. 
