And May, with the mud puddles,
and dragon heads near surface, dipping
into slop mirrors, dancing with mouths,
from teal and taffeta slim beasts
ripe for spring and ballet coarse
jaunt of too many limbs,
and watching them dart over,
impossible to catch, like spritely neon
meteorites destined
for a life force
hidden within a folded doorway
amongst trees, and lake,
and path -
some mistakable place
my eyes, too human, miss.