the dragonflies in my barley field

a poem about the foolishness of hurried-ness

As the passing summer rain became a humid memory,

the sunshine took its turn

drenching this barley field with all its soul.

From beneath the sheltering elms, I came forth,

into this wide and open barley field,

knee-high bounteous with its honey-golden yield.

And as I stood in awestruck wonder,

my face kissed by the warm, warm light so heaven sent,

I was come upon,

quite suddenly,

by a swirling, circling flock of gossamer winged,

ebony jeweled,

dragonflies.

One, two, three, four,

so many more to count,

with their dipping and darting,

I lose track of each,

they become each other,

here and there and there no more.

These dragonflies, they danced about me,

as if spinning to a devil's fiddle in a demon driven tarantella,

here, there, no where to rest,

not knowing what turn is next,

except to turn,

to dash back and forth,

harried, hurried,

searching, searching for just one more gnat of life,

just one more, just more,

ne'er enough,

they must keep going,

there is no time to settle,

for these dragonflies,

this swarm of frantic fever,

flitting here and there,

and there no more,

a tumbling tribe of such busy souls,

traveling across my barley field,

my barley field of honey-gold.

 

 

 

The End

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