Georgia is a hazy state,
its skies hum like
high voltage wires,
alive with a ticking deluge
of darning needles.
Sounds like rain. It might.

The morning mist rises,
seems ready to rush
the lawn, but the air knows
the thickness, contains it
in shallow pools birthing
ancient and aerial insects.

The stalks of plants crawl
with dragonflies dragging
themselves to dry. Larvae
will crack, they fill with blood,
gasp and unwrap, their lean
bodies shimmering to life.

02/26/2004

Author's Note: A welcomed departure from Rochester/winter poems. Written for an assignment on animals/insects & inspired by this past summer's Drum Corps roadtrip to Florida.

Posted on 02/26/2004
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason