night bears the weight of the moon
bone white and swollen
silhouetting wings outstretched
and ready.

sparks fly.

speak a little louder.

glow in the dark.

acknowledge the myriad saints
and gods of the morning and high places
who turn a blind eye and pretend
to know not of anything greater
than themselves.

little lighthouse,
shine your green heart
through edges cracking
in preparation for new growth.
a constant bloom. emerging
to speak in tongues and live out the myth
within the circle of fire
surrounded by the accumulation
of all these things that were never small,
but were held in open hands
along with the cup I hold now
to your cautious lips.