Several lifetimes away, it seems,
Metalled dancers will hang on to dragonets
That must spit, snarl, duel and – gods-be-kind –
Finish with flourishes.
I am here; this is now. Dark November
I lean back in chair-that-will-be-burned,
Stare up till focus be lost, through the
Sweet branches of my life at
Pretty, temporary sparks that
Bomb and crayon these seconds.
Beyond are the true stars that may
No longer be there.
Around me, beyond my control,
Outside my bubble
Families grow up, Taking their leaves,
Despite the distances I love them still.