My Thoughts On The Lifecycle

by Taylor Sicko

My grandmother is a dragonfly

and my mother whispers to the air 

whenever one is near.

Her gentle call

or wish

or

I'm not really sure

carried through the air

as delicate as the first signs of spring

to the ears of the dragonfly

which I'm not even sure it has.

She believes I’m sure

the flaps of its wings are sending her love back.

Sign language of the earth.

And from a distance 

I sent my own call too

or wish

or

I'm not really sure. 

More violent in the wind 

like the storms we used to watch

out the window

to the ears of my grandmother

though I'm not even sure she’ll hear.

Tell me about re-birth. 

Did it hurt when your too long arms became wings?

Will they hold me the same? 

And tell me, do you miss having nails to paint?

Dragonfly, when you die 

what will you choose? 

The grass seems to stay a while

and parrots know speech.

Dragonfly,

when you die

tell me

what will you choose?