1 poem

Patricia Wallesverd

Homecoming

After the numbing coldness
of a long white winter,
we seem to have forgotten
that June is not all freedom.

It still holds what we have chosen
to forget:
swarms of mayflies,
unrelenting rain,
haloes of mosquitoes.
We mutter complaints,
wish for
sidewalks and blacktop,
parking lots, pavement—
anything to stop
the annoying buzz of insects.

But this morning—
the dock is dotted with
dragonflies as long as my hand.
They rest on the pile
of yellow and white beach towels,
land on an inner tube,
my red-painted toenail,
my daughter’s wet head.
It is as if they are showing us
it isn’t all rain and bug bites
and the persistent smell of citronella.

There is beauty in early summer:
the dark pinhead eyes,
the transparent wings
with their tiny veins mapping
a path to air,
the glowing iridescent greens and blues—
the stillness of a resting dragonfly.

We count 27 of them,
landing around us,
hovering like old women
welcoming us home.