dragonfly

by Linda M. Crate

you are
fickle as an ever-changing
moon; your mercurial dance of
moods
always explodes
as fire works in an American sky
of July Fourth —
your passion
drips in rain, burns like the
fury of the flame;
it evades me on the stained
wings of remote
dragonflies —
strained violin strings snap
their blossoms over us;
the fragrance
of roses washes over me
river stones of past skeletons yet unburied —
your yellowed bones crack,
spiders fall from your branches
and clandestine purport
is locked
behind
teeth that rattle secrets spun of spider silk
in the rustling leaves of
quiet night