We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.

years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.

Whispered voices, my parents, excitedly
hushing each other in the driveway.

Inside now, tiptoeing into the kitchen
rustling packages meant for my
brothers and me, from the Easter Bunny.

Upstairs, in my little bunk bed by the window
I am old enough to know what's what,
young enough to be enchanted by the magic
created again and again by pure, devoted love.

(And may it always be so.)

Floating to find me on the humid April
air, the heady fragrance of hyacinth
establishes his presence with certainty.
What other scent is more evocative of Spring?

Magical beings, as I knew them, always
had a flair for elegance, and kindness.

Downstairs, the loving, secret bustling
continues with detailed purpose,
as layer upon layer of the magic emerges.

Earlier that day, at least one brother and I
would have searched our woods for
several colors and kinds of moss and lichen
to build a miniature world on the kitchen table.

It was this welcoming world of soft green hills
and perhaps a tiny foil pond that was meant
to honor and invite our esteemed, invisible friend.

My parent's artful introduction of glistening
multi-colored chocolate eggs, Perugina bunnies
from the Cafe Aurora, and the three hyacinths
to plant later in the garden were their gentle
responding gestures in this sacred pact,
all in the name of magic, all
in the name of holy love,
its very own,
Infinite Self.

Quiet mind, immersed
in palest, warmest yellow.

Molecules within
find alignment
with infinity.

Silvery mercurial fluid
paints my bones
with gentle light.

You have come back.

Abundantly, warm salt
water envelopes me.

Even in this chair,
in this empty room.

On dry land.