She wonders why
The dragonfly tarries.

She is not honeysuckle
Sweetly fragrant
And dressed to delicate.

She is not wildly adorned
In purple streaks
And dark abandon.

She is not the
Warm summer river
Cast to gentle
In the wake of
Sunlight's evaporation.

She is vagrant,
A wanderlust
Hungry for the next adventure.

She is gypsy,
Bent toward
A rootless tale
And never settled in.

Her creaky bones
Fuss at the restless veins
Of her journey,
But are eventually shushed
By the vaporous humming
Of an ageless lullaby.

The dragonfly tarries,
Suspended by the melody;
A million hearts-a-flutter.

06/08/2012