Sojourn

Some time ago in the Far East
dragons shed scales
that tangled into ivy
scrolled up trees.
I still untangle vines today,
like an archeologist,
trying to piece skin together,
not bones.

My eyelids will not
be locked in silence.
I saw those wings, wings
brushed against wings,
shimmered in front
of my Himalayas.
The sky, a crayon plum
like pages in a children's
story book or Van Gogh's night,
stretched its wispy fingers of fog
across time, tempted my thoughts.