dragon

All summer, a line of tiny green dragons
has been slowly creeping
up the outer wall of my neighbor’s house.
Each dragon, from wing tip to wing tip,
is the width of my outspread hand
and is made of a collection of leaves.
Like a disciplined line of determined ants,
these small, leafy dragons
follow one after the other,
evenly spaced along a tightrope stem.
My mind traces their path
as if my fingers were drawing it—
the angles,
the curves,
the negative spaces,
the quiet climb,
the gentle stretch,
the touch of tendril to red brick
that heats in the sun
and chills in the cool night,
the cling that holds the vine tight
in wind and lashing rain.
A vine is persistently persistent,
tenaciously tenacious,
grasping at the next available surface,
in this case, iron bars of a spiral staircase.
The vine curls around the first bar,
the second,
the third,
follows its shape spiraling upward
to the second floor landing.
There it stops and celebrates this feat
by blooming into orange trumpets
all along the dragon-leaf path,
giving itself to butterflies
and hummingbirds
and me.
A gust of wind
and a scattering of leaves swirl down.
The vine simply shivers
and clings and blooms.
It will soon turn brown and brittle.
The little dragons will let go
and fly away with the wind.
I will witness this wonder,
keep a winter watch,
and wait for spring
when once again,
a line of tiny green dragons
will start their warm-weather journey
up the wall of my neighbor’s house.
-kh-