I am every bit a dragonfly today
feeding on fleeting days,
the crisp fall air
turning my stomach,
my wings barely tangible.
There will be snow soon
and I will be lost in it.
I can find no hope in the tainted
leaves, the turning season,
the expanding night.
There seems no reason to rhyme,
no color that is brave enough,
no metaphor complete.
I will understate my fragility
and will suffer it alone.
As useless as the dying year
with its dispiriting quiet
and incurable days,
I linger, only just, ragged-winged
within diminished words.
Christine Austin Cole
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dragonflying/
