We greet rain with dour eyes,
down turned mouth, sighs....
wishing blue, sun, clear skies.
Grumble dragon's flame,
succeeding in creating mist.
Who walks through the mist?
That dark figure, silent, slow....
That being of our own creation.
Demon-winged, or angel-robed,
laughing at enchanted clouds,
leaving no prints to identify....
perhaps our deepest fear, realized....
It is us.
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dragon-flames/
