The First Thing I Remember Is A Dragonfly

I remember a certain dragonfly.
And in remembering, I surrender.
And in that surrendering, I struggle,

And wander along the Calumet —
The breathless length of Cline Avenue —
The sock-soaked, spring grasslands by the tracks.

Our fathers shopped at Sears; served Church;
Passed through gates, sealed seams, and undid
Wickedness done to them and theirs

In years hard-fought-for and lost —
In ways slow to yield and give.
(They remembered dragonflies.)

The Apostle Paul stands
In all my Christmases,
And nothing undoes this.

And where I remain,
With roads and angles,
And all those traces,

The firelight dies.
The jungle thins.
The days go joke.

(Dragonfly.)

Grace or fate.

A Christmas.

I pause,
and give
myself

to
a
grace.