They come in the low, late August sun,
as if gold is what they are made of,
reflect the hay ground, cut clean, and ambering.
They come only now, when the sun drifts south
in the autumning year, day nearly done.
Dragonflies, by the hundreds— thousands—come.
Flash, and flash, they drone over and around you,
within reach, as if they stitch some invisible thread
between seasons, weave across and back as if
to mend your late summer grief.
All across the field, above, and in the distance
they rise; an echo of midsummer’s fireflies.
Their sparks fill the air—
There! And there—and there!
Droning magnificent,
dragonflies sweep and dip
as if their only purpose
is to mirror August’s burnished sun to you,
tell you, more than goldenrod can,
there is turning—and in the letting go
there’s gold.
—
Catherine Young, a disabled writer and performing artist, is author of the environmental memoir Black Diamonds: A Childhood Colored by Coal and the ecopoetry collection Geosmin. Her prose and poetry are published in anthologies and literary journals internationally and nationally. She worked as a national park ranger, farmer, educator, and mother. She loves meandering streams and deeply believes in the use of story for transforming the world. Find her Landward podcasts and writings at: www.catherineyoungwriter.com
