On a rock
far out in the ocean, sits
a tree.
Its trunk is
sturdy, like the
very rock itself.
And for good reason.
Instead of lush, flowing leaves adorning delicate branches that drift
to and fro
in the wind,
there are dragons.
Small, scaled balls of energy
with wings.
Their span is but a foot,
but the underside of those mighty beaters
shimmers like a plate of
mother-of-pearl.
Gripping the branches with
wrinkled, long-clawed toes,
the dragons feast on
tangy sap, ready to
take to the evening sky
for their task of catching the smokey, iridescent tears
of the moon
to fertilize the tree’s hungry roots.
Treeshallow Musings 