Prophet

No Insect is holier than the Praying Mantis,
Who, when perched on a twig or a leaf, goes unnoticed
In the light and the dark.

I've met you once before in fantastical
Childhood. Caught and trapped you
As I hold you now, a green and curious

Predator, poised on a stick kept
In a jar upon the bedroom shelf.
You—stagger, looking for

Balance, like a child
Feeling his way
Across the rocks in a creek.

Perched now upon young, budding blossoms,
Among unfledged dew drops
In your arms—you clean yourself

Cat-fashion in the Sun. Looking away,
Taken in by the scent of pungent spring-green,
I return a glance to find—
You have gone away.