You stopped by and we both paused:
my weight lent on spade,
yours on overlooked nettle.
Had not seen one of your kind
for years; though I recalled the name.
But my guide said you remain,
with two broods every year,
commonplace in this neck of woods –
the punctuation of summer.
Still from their restless beating,
crinkle-edged wings unfold, held stiff
by scales and veins. Antennae
read the breeze: quiver with foresight.
Minded to decrypt those hieroglyphs,
dark on your orange parchment,
I had neither tongue nor time:
this torn page fluttering flies away,
unclaimed, where breath lends itself.
vii.2009 - v.2018
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