The damselfly, at rest, folds up her wings
as if in prayer. She waits, perfectly still,
observing what the present moment brings.
Then silently, she holds her pose until
her instinct guides her to move on. She glides
with ease above the grass, the hills, the streams.
She has no need to stop and analyze
her path, or be concerned with hopes and dreams.
Before she is herself, the damselfly
must moult a dozen times; when she arises,
she’s finished with the struggle. She can fly
unburdened by illusions and disguises.
Her jewel-like body takes up little space;
her existence is a silent hymn to grace.
Diane Elayne Dees
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Diane Elayne Dees
would be pleased to hear them.