On which day of creation did the insects appear,
the one that looks like a leaf
with all the green veins,
the one that mimics a twig,
the mantis I picked up,
the color of my skin
as if it could hide there,
the eye-winged moth, watching,
the beetles who wrote their stories in wood
before they flew.
I wasn’t at any of their births
and know I missed the fashioning of angels
who have learned to hide their great lives.
Tonight I sit by my lamp
and watch two dragonflies enter the room
with green wings.
The mystery is that I don’t match their beauty,
their lace, their silken powders,
their praise of sun,
the known glory of a breeze,
but I am happy. For tonight
everything I could want is here.
There’s no searching, no wanting,
and I don’t know on which day of creation
such happiness was made
and signed by thin feet.