Clamped upon ribbed ridges
where shell cracked a central seam
the full-grown harvestfly emerges aqua
lighter blue than anywhere in nature,
two three-inch wings
spread not yet for flying
drying.

To the brown shell of a nymph
that grubbed on root juices three years
—whose empty feet
will grip the cohosh leaf
until the next great wind—
clings the origin of faerie.
To a dull mound with emptied legs.

When peach juices and blackberry
run down the chin and a dozen
ears of corn tassel market sacks
we see them parked on flagstones
or outgreening the grass,
black back and eyes, clear wings
with emerald hems, and the red shoes

of creatures who have longed
to dance, whose feet will never cross
church threshold, whose bread of life
is air. In an hour the spread wings
will shutter the great body,
vibrant vulnerable blue
hardening before the rain.

Stone Canoe (2012)