There she clung to the flower.
The flower stood high above the rest,
small, but healthy against the rainy sky.
Yellow, in contrast with her lean, charcoal body,
dark center to match.
The idea of her made me shiver as I passed her on my path.
I thought her a spider at first,
her fuzz obscured by the droplets of water
that nearly drowned her.
She clung with all her little life.
On second thought,
she clung, but used no energy:
her little insect feet
were barbed for latching on,
upon just such occasions.
Her wings were gently folded back,
motionless, in fine, dewy gauze.
She’s like me, I smiled.
Frightening, in a pretty way like me,
when I was dying, I paused.
Suffering, quietly hanging on.
I could risk it, and take her into my palm,
but that would be unnatural,
and I felt I would do her less good and more harm.
And besides, she frightened me.
I told myself: when the sun came again
she would dry, take back her color,
and be thankful evermore
for that sweet little flower
that fit her so well,
and which she suckled from.
Using her fill,
and shaking out her wings then,
carefully checking them against the wind,
she would just fly on.