tread the line

a prayer,

this fog before 
the dawn, crunchy 
leaves so light 
on the old elm

ignites wildfire
in the blue hour

dry  |  scattered 
who couldn't
let go

and awakened 
full but still thirsty
before the sun 

could release
the moon's edge. 

Like a river 

effortlessly, truth
takes many turns

and hand-over-hand in
darkness, thoughts:
soot and smoke 
on the water,

pray a choice 
of stillness
despite.

And of freedom, a 
life not owned
by shadow, 
shake 

instead like all things 
shocked must do 

as all living is shocked

until nothing of old 
leaves any ember 
that may spark/ 

even hope 
and the cruelty 
or the way 
smiling 

can be a rebellion 

when loved have gone-
pray any fire,
a peacemaker

if the rebellion
must go on.

And for the wailing cat 
hungry mouth 
and mangy 
coat 

too messy 
to grow love 
or to have a 
warm hand 

upon it, 
pray, too; 

for daisy chains, 
crowns on would-be 
princesses and princes, 
for baby frogs in pencil 
cases, and lizards 
clamped on 
sweaty 
ears 

because 
the children's play 
is survival

and to smile at the abyss

at its ferocity, then
because we are fierce,
the same.

But, pray especially
for paper dolls 

torn with rough edges,

the square pegs 
in round holes

that they know 
who they are 
and are curious 

of what they are not-

a rain held as it grows
having been brave 
to accept their 
beauty,

and that of others/
knowing need.

Pray for the thirst 
the blue hour 
sparks

every line of every 
hill, clear as the 
moon’s edge

when the sun so close
will soon arrive 
or soon go,

a time to shake free.