The Dragonflies of Obon

Lanterns drift on the river,
their light trembling
like breath held too long.

A soft wind moves
through the tassels of ripening rice,
whispering to no one,
to everyone.

The red dragonflies of the season
hover in erratic circles,
keepers of the threshold,
their wings catch
the last fire of the day.

The air feels porous--
as if something unseen
has stepped into it,
paused,
and gone on ahead.

〜the joyomancer〜