Flat On The Flag

A dragonfly was still, exquisite quiet

on a piece of trim on the greenhouse floor.

They come in and beat themselves to death on the glass.

I picked him up by two same-side wings

and set him outside on the patio.

It was raining. He flopped flat on the flagstone,

then gained his feet and washed his eyes

repeatedly, using his forelegs, 

lolling his hemispheric head,

like half a dehydrated pea on a stick.

A gust of wind flipped him on his back.

He curled his blue, green and brown abdomen,

fluttered a little and righted himself—

back on his own six legs, wet.

I came back later and he hadn’t left.

I had hoped to say he was gone, glad;

however, he was stone dead. 

At least he had had a drink.