Am Now

He thinks:
The dragonfly larva
is not a young dragonfly.
It is a different life.
The larva cannot fly.
The imago cannot swim.

He wonders:
Am I
just for now
the larva of a man? Not a younger man
but a reassembling being, here—now
new above the forgotten lakebed.

And thinks:
Will I
after my wings have dried
and after my eyes have re-collected
their multiverse lenses and focused into bright sync,

will I
having looked about
into the windblown green and hungry
interstices of Something’s new world,

will I
when I am finally ready to leave
the surface of my dead life, become not the man
that has been me but newly constructed?
A fresh creation?

Will I
discover a light new world into which I dare
take web-laced wings to the sky
or reveal a great Appetite
into which I may wobble for a few ravenous hours?

Richard Fenton Sederstrom was raised and lives in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona and the North Woods of Minnesota. Sederstrom is the author of seven books of poetry, his newest book, Icarus Rising, Misadventures in Ascension, published by Jackpine Writers' Bloc, was released last winter. Read other articles by Richard Fenton.