letters to smallish dragons

 

we scribble tiny syllables
and tuck them between
these bright petaled teeth,

unsheath our quill-swords
and pen the truth in praise
and song.

they long to be spangled
in our word-skins, I think,

saturated
satiated
in wee-stemmed
………………..ink.

 

In April, we poem. Some days, none. Some days, legion. 

 

 

 

 

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