the farmhouse roof
ignites flames
in your eyes,
marries with
the bonfire
at our feet
as voices lift;
the future of PeaceCorps, CSAs,
homegrown local circles
of communion at once
drawn in the dirt.
Only a spark,
a pencil,
those ice cream stains,
a broken heart,
a marriage,
a child,
a bit of tie line,
or recycled flat
remains
of the last story.
Tonight, though -
a child alchemist
weaves, enchants
four legged quarks
into gold.
Voices rise
as we complicate,
disintegrate, break down
into soft giggles over spilled wine.
Eons earlier a climb,
the dreamgiver's dance
up scaffolding in dreadlocked blue.
Now around the fire,
soured remnants of glitter mix
with lager, lipstick -
a virgin will sleep beneath
the ghost light tonight.
Shifting scenes dissolve between
nightmares of fourteen hour days,
her smile, ringing laughter
after the first mosquito bite of summer;
a mug of rum around the bonfire,
the excitement of the child alchemist;
a spark,
a pencil,
those ice cream stains,
a broken heart,
a marriage,
a child,
a bit of tie line,
and recycled flat;
our rising
Gossamer Moon.
