Season of Dragonflies
In memory of my beloved Dad (1937-2020)
A blue dragonfly today
passed by on her way up and
over the fence and into the
unreachable unseen
where you have been
ever since last fall
when you surprised us all
by taking your last breath
fully dressed, keys in your pocket,
starting the day as any other,
and then sneaking off it
like a mischievous schoolboy
having heard a strange bird
beyond the backstop, ignoring
the padlock to go out after it.
Mom was shocked
to find you seated
so peacefully
upon the couch,
hands on your lap,
head laid back,
dry mouth open,
a shell unruffled,
quiet as a cellar,
dancing blue eyes
vacant as a sky
above Arizona.
We wondered why
with everything so tidy
one of your shoelaces
was left untied.
Had you noticed?
Or not had the wherewithal
to bend that far down
and tie up loose ends?
Why tie a string
on a melting thing?
No one cares
to lock the door
running out of
a house on fire.
Your chariot came quickly.
Elijah was laughing
as he waved you on board.
You touched the wood trim,
wondering how it was laid,
and thinking for a moment
of ways to improve your
own Solomon’s porch,
but the torching flame
and the snort of horses,
the old weathered hand
(that had raised up a child
and waved down a fire-strike
on the over drenched altar)
now reaching to lift you
up off the cushion
dissolved any last minute
kind hesitation--
I know you were thinking
of your Lily in the field--
how her petals would wither
in the blast of the exit.
A dragonfly kissed me
in a land far north.
I think your chariot
had burnished its wings
a glistening auburn;
it found my lips balm
to the awfulness of glory.
I am still waiting
in the calm of the storm
to cry as I know
I must one day cry.
The green in my world
is radiant with praise,
and the breezes are gentle
that keep the world shimmering
with whispers that Life
is everywhere spilling
over the low frazzled hedges.
You are so close.
This veil between us
is the width of a membrane
that circles a cell.
Why it is I cannot tear it,
or slip by its edges,
or why you don’t trespass
in clandestine a manner
as the day that you left us
with all of the tools now
at your disposal--
this is something
I cannot understand.
But the season of dragonflies
will soon be upon us.
I tie my shoes
for a meandering walk
along the shores
of Lake Sammamish,
watching the lip
of clear cold water
bobble and tease
at the pebbled shore,
mocking the arbitrariness of lines
while holding itself back
a little bit longer,
lapping a pattern,
a morse code of promise
that fences and padlocks
and veils and membranes
and lake ripples held
by their guardian banks
are all of them nothing
but houses on fire
lit by the chariots
everywhere descending
in dragonfly aerials
dancing through the smoke
rising higher and higher.
For eight months since my father’s death I have wanted to write a poem to process his loss and have been unable to write anything. Until yesterday. I was outside on a beautiful day, weeding our gravel driveway with my Dad’s hat on my head, when suddenly I felt the urge to write a poem. I wasn’t even thinking of writing a poem about Dad in particular. I sat down in the shade (still wearing his hat and somewhat unconscious of the fact) and I began to write words prompted by the dragonfly that had earlier flown by us and of which I had taken notice. The dragonfly has been a poignant symbol of my Dad (and the hope of resurrection) ever since one bumped into my mouth on the day that he died. Today I feel an overwhelming sense of joy and relief and wonder and sadness (all mixing together) at the gift of this poem to me that has somehow (finally!) captured my elusive insides, along with the great esteem and affection with which I think of my Dad, along with the hope inside me that the veil between us will one day melt into smoke underneath the joyful dancing of the dragonflies!