gossamer and fluttering, his hand

grazes his throat as he gushes about language,

and I am reminded he is not a child, no matter how

animatedly he speaks. truly fascinated now,

I listen as the delirious paper dragons, gleeful

and well-lit, his eyes, suffuse a delicate steadiness. he smiles

and the sparks imbue gunpowder with the grace of fireworks

crackling amidst the silk of his sooty gaze.

this february morning we all begin our lives as one.

tonight even strangers can be born into the moon.