Changing Season  Joan Brady

It is all in a piece 
of chance dance,
this innovation

with steaming stone dripping 
the saliva of dragons.
Return time, not mentioned.

Me, I have no love of fire...
so, this round , cavern-place. with
skylight to the moon, assures me,
continuing, warm, madness.

It is a new way of watching...
ringed by the passing of days,
the passing of seasons

How long this journey? I remember 
it began just after the saxophone 
went silent...and the clarinet.

But today, this is a new kind
of watching, ringed by persimmon
trees...with overreaching branches. 

In the late summers, sometimes, fruit 
falls in. Even now, there is, still, an odor 
of wet seeds, in this moist dryness.

Twice now, in passing, I have 
seen each season change.

Today, evening, the
branches form a silhouette against
the sky, static, bending in wind.

Clear outside...still hot, I think. In a few hours 
the moon will pass over, visibly. Always like 
that part the best. Stay up late. Wait for it.

Does get lonely, though. Keep wishing 
the dragons would come back. Fiery 
creatures, they are. Like to lie belly up 
on their back, and roar while resting.

Then they fall into deep, smoky sleep. 
I know they will need  to stop soon. 
They’ve been gone so long now.

My friend, Custard, he was the one 
who brought me here, It was a kindness.
Afterwards, he left with the rest.

Time for them to come back again, I think.

It would be nice to have company again.

                       

                                              ***