Translucent, thin-veined pairs of wings:
The hymenoptera insects, among all flying things,
So swift, so sure, in their soaring flight.
The dragonfly can circle a moving car;
The firefly flashes the light of life in the night.
They, too, are made of stardust from a fallen star.
Look there; a spider, weaving its engineer-perfect strands;
Fearfully grand and beautiful: the web of life...the web of death...
The web catches dewdrops, reflecting light, bright like a lovely jewel.
Nature can be miraculous and mad, so kind, so warm, so cold and cruel.
Oh God, my living lungs cry out to draw more breath!
The web is like an open pair of hands,
Waiting to catch our little flying friends.
So life begins, and soars in joy; and so life futilely ends.
We dream and marvel; wake and sleep; enjoy and live; we suffer and die:
All beneath a silent, soft blue, beautiful sky.
With weeping wonder we say goodbye.
Losing the magic light we love, we mourn.
With only the bare hope of, possibly--some day, some way--being reborn.
All that is, becomes was.
All living things--
Flying life--are finally fragile, and death-destinged on diaphanous wings.
We don't know why.
Only God knows why: if anyone does.

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--Written by Michael LP
aka MLP, aka Mr. Poet, aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC
(I'm just me)
Copyright © 2010 by Michael L.P.   All rights reserved