In the garden within the pond,
a sculpture swirled and angled
with grace has rusted.
At the top, as if artistic afterthought
brought them to this coupling,
were the iridescent wings of two dragon flies.
He had danced in circles with the smaller
less vibrant female and they had stopped
just a moment in a circle of continuity,
joined and melded in perfect harmony.
Now he sat frozen,
his wings outstretched
as she released her offering into the pond,
again and again, then flew away
to hide against a brown branch,
her wings closed and silent.
He flew in orbit around my head,
his color like the bright orange fish
off the clear waters of Catalina.
The sun drenched his rainbow wings
as he stopped and hovered for a moment
in front of my transfixed watching.
Then, in sure and perfect movement,
he traveled the maze of tall corn stalks,
dropping behind the lily
and the nodding sun flower
to appear again over the pond.
She did not return.
Her color demure and soft was gone,
her completion drained into the pond.
She was away whispering wings
above a different pond perhaps.
But he stayed all afternoon
playing with the breeze,
coloring the air.
I like to think he waited
for her.
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