Deep in the cave of his Shadows
and hidden treasure,
boundaries of cold
hard
rock
keep

The Western Dragon
from the skies he could be flying.

(My wings are diaphanous.
He doesn’t recognize.)

Stretching out my hands to him,
I enter
his space
though dark and hard to see.

—Jarring
— thunderous roar —
he rages
against
my presented hands,
defends the gold
and gems
he cannot spend.

Spitting flames, he
scorches
my hands,
blisters
my heart.

My wings are singed.
I leave with
a vision:

Beyond this cave,
in the vast
blue
emptiness,
blazes The Great Eastern Sun.

The Great Eastern Dragon,
in his wisdom
and
radiance,
sends forth a flame
— precise and alchemical —

I
rise
like a
Phoenix.

 

Copyright © Marian Buchanan 1989