The ridged leaves overlapped loosely like the rough scales
of some ancient dragon's flank, and rose in slippery slopes
of layered triangular shadows on either side of the driveway:
and in the fall, they were rust-red,
and in the spring they were the dull smudged green
of oxidizing copper.
I have them in my head still because I used to nap there,
outside on the cracked concrete, belly up, the back of my head
supported by my arms, with sunheat heavy on my face,
sunbright printing an afterimage of delicate tesselation
on my eyelids' red insides, so that I really could not help,
simply could not help
dreaming dragon dreams.
And when I woke up, if it was the right month,
if the sun was at the right place in the sky,
I rose and parted the leaves and sought out blackberries
behind the veining vines.
I ate them where I found them, even if I was still
knee-deep, my bare feet sore from stepping on pine needles:
ate until my mouth was red, and my fingers were red,
and my teeth were red, and bright with the blood of the brambles,
and for a single hungry heartbeat, I understood
the language of the birds.
