Saturday she appeared
after the rains.
To lay her eggs among new growth on the rose bushes
where there will be aphids aplenty for her nymphs come Spring.
Or is it merely that she is tired
and too heavy to fly, to fight against the end.
There she hangs suspended, gravity seduced,
like a plane falling out of the sky
on its last journey to Earth.
Soon enough the Frost will take her.
But not before I have said goodbye,
my finger stroking her sun-warmed wings,
as I wish the angels would stroke mine.