It feels warm
Like a solstice eve
Where the moon hangs low
Smiling like
Cheshire
From Wonderland.
There’s a tepid air
Of summer yet to come
Where stars sing spells
That require
The roar of a lion
Before the hunt,
The rare white strand
On the back
Of an auburn fox
And a vial
Of heady desire
Stirred with
The blood of things
That will never come to be.
A sultry breeze
Has brushed
The nape of my neck
In a kiss
Of magic
Like the dew that glistens
On a solstice morning
When I might
Blow a wish
To the wind
That rest on the petals
Of enchanted dandelions.