Paused on the underside,
the damselfly folds her wings across her back
like two matched slivers of isinglass.
Her body, thin as a thorn,
flits by in sepia tone.
She pins her wish to the ridges of a leaf,
then flickers along the edge of a pond,
the night-green mirror of her fairy life.
Her sorrows are wind and a stream gone dry;
she lets herself be blown from sight.
In late day sun, when her wings glint like tears,
she darns the torn hopes of the hyacinth.
*Inspired by the photograph