A Room Of One's Own

A thousand grey dragonflies
Hover my feet
As the Sun teases Shadow's play,
And green moss grows
And billows where he touches
The tips and the edge of the lake.

And the banks are full
Of every good thing,
Colorful stones and berries that grow,
But this is her place,
And I must go
And find my own.

And will I hear
The wistful sounds
Of the freight train's whistle low?
The clank of links
That bob against
The gate of your gazebo?

Will I remember the dragonflies
That gently flutter now?
Will I wonder
If you'll think of me?

-jenn