The Dragonfly moon hovers,
clinging on to the edge of the sky,
as the light bends,
eluding the rough walls of a cottage
unnoticed by design,
in a forest clearing.
Transmutation creates its own medium,
a pocket in time,
its hot wind carrying scents
the whispers of the alchemist
speaking gently to coax the madness out of hiding.
The hammer holds the beat
and the metal sings out in the ecstasy of becoming
and rising out of the half light of glowing coals…
Its wings of glass
puzzlepieced together and bound with threads of crackled gold
and see them spread mandorla layered,
and read the messages in the lace.
Soon joined by another,
the air dance is begun,
and the alchemist weeps and laughs
to see their murmurations,
as the windows burst
and the wildsweet winds
billow out to meet the night.
The ballet continues spinning,
spilling over into the theater of the rising moon,
black against silvery white,
and they rise like like tiny dragons,
until faint and far…
The fires banked and the magic unwinding,
cooling into dormancy,
and there stands the spent and trembling alchemist,
with face still damp,
spellbound and spell enthralled,
the after images flickering in his eyes,
in ardent vigilance,
under the gaze of the Dragonfly moon.