We give her wings, knowing
she will leave us. Knowing she
will take all this glorious bold
jade skin and match it to the sky.
We etch her scales with salt
and sea and sorrow and hope,
knowing she will ache and sing,
knowing she will conquer, smile.
We weave her teeth with words
and wind, knowing she will stretch
out tongue and taste the sour,
savor the sweet. We know she’ll
breathe fire, leave ash in her wake,
wake the dawn with her roar, score
the earth with her scorch-sting. We
feel her heat, her unsprung heart,
the way it stops and starts and fears
no thing. We play with light and dark
and quiet sparks and bright crimson and
small slow indigo sway. We know she’ll
love and hate us. We fold and form and
plant and poem and make her anyway.