Sitting in a coffeeshop, day dreaming, I spied, through a window, a dragonfly hovering above a plume of lavendar flowers.


Dragonflies, speckled blue,
iridecent and light,
hover above the meadow flowers,
above the still pond where bullfrogs
belch dark poetry,
dragonflies scraping the history
etched on their glassy wings
against the cool breath of trees
bidding the forest to whisper
old stories to the children playing,
hiding in the depths of their shadows.


3 thoughts on “Historians

  1. I promised myself I wouldn’t keep repeating the same thing, but I can’t help it. This is just beautiful 🙂 ‘belch dark poetry… scraping history….’ – the whole thing!


  2. Pingback: The Many Shades of Sound – soulgifts – Telling Tales

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