He folded lined paper.
Wrote the words of a City and Colour
song
inside.
Always and forever.
But why the dragon?
The cover was a simple
line drawing.
Cute,
if dragons are your thing.
The very first
time
I really posed for
a camera,
I was also heard.
My words were aligned
with the image.
Words of endless softening.
Clear those days are over.
Thus born the young dragon.
I suppose the real fire
began to emit
when grown up
me
really turned around
and clasped a small hand.
It’s so easy to forget her
still.
Little me.
I mean
she has whispered so
softly.
Not counting those
times
she needed to stomp.
Is that why
the army boots …
Now I practice.
A true line of flame
head on to mo(u)rning.
Hand cupped beside my
hip.
She slips in
every time.
Not once does
her gratitude wane.
With my fire
and my wee self,
I could almost be
complete.
But there is still
some practicing
to do.
Still so much
repetition
to stand alone,
to not fix,
leap,
resolve,
absorb a truth
other than my own.
In all my forty-eight
I have never marked
spring
by the first open
dandelion.
Til this year.
Bring the Joy 