Ottava Rima for “The Locust”

I was talking with the Anoles—who have a lot to share—
when I saw you staring up at me, without so much as an “I beg your pardon!”
Calmly taking in the universe- You seemed perfectly “at home” there-
Quietly humming, patiently sunning–waiting for your armor to harden
You were here-strictly by chance, You could have emerged anywhere—
But I found you, taking in the view, sitting on a leaf-in Martha’s Garden.
I thought you were a grasshopper— But– your color was all wrong!
You let me take your picture…your countenance was strong!

There was a “locust” in my photograph! My reaction was visceral!
But before I write your epitaph, tell me—are you an entrusted military scout?
Are you “out on report”- Surveying the place for your Honorius General?
Or could you be a solitary world traveler, who independently moves about–
The free spirit, riding on the wind— one who knows that life’s ephemeral?
Did you KNOW I would not harm you-you are a LOCUST, there’s no doubt!
I’m fascinated at your “brave indifference,” As you stand there unafraid–
You have wings, and yet, you remain; “the stuff” from which—“legends” are made!

You are the scourge– the very sight of you strikes fear in the hearts of men!
You are the “Locust”–Coming up out of the earth in a dark, buzzing, boisterous cloud;
You surge from within the salted earth—swarms of pestilence-billowing in
You are the “Locust”— Decimator of crops— Brigham’s faith unbowed
You emerge from the desert floor –An army-millions strong—and then again
You are the “Locust”—Moses’ miraculous minions of freedom-avowed;
Feast of the seagulls…thousands of miles from the ocean…
Freer of the slaves… thousands of years of devotion…

But Today, we meet here in Martha’s Garden…alone
No army, no Brigham, no Pharoh, no Moses–
Suddenly I hear a buzzing in the distance…it’s my phone
And quick as our interlude began, it closes
You are the ”Locust”—and you still haven’t flown
I don’t know why, but the child in me supposes
That like all living things, you have your place in history–
And your “perfect timing” will forever remain a mystery!

Photo & Poetry©neocup

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