Eleven

The days are longer now, they’ve yawned and stretched,
decided not to leave so soon. They’ve calmed
themselves to see which prayers are faintly etched
in dappled shadows, listen to the psalms
that ring from tree to tree through restless air
that shimmers on the ground. These days will each
grow longer still, intensify their stare
and glare, collapse the midday shadows’ reach.

But even when the flowers start to fade:
magnolia reduced to prickled clubs,
the jacaranda spent of purple rain,
the pixie mops gone grey atop their shrubs;
the nymphs will swim, await the proper time
to curl, break free, and swarm as dragonflies.

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