by Christopher Robin Adams
Dark and dancing in shadows
dripping over me from oak leaves
blocking sun here and there.
Lights easy and medium-plus draw.
so, as I write here,
Transitions from leaf to fire to leaf.
He waits for me
to give him attention,
to fire him up
and bring snippets of light
into these oaken shadows.
I read, also,
and McCoy sleeps through that, too.
No patience for the creative mind.
He selfishly demands fingers and fire.
I write on,
and I do not fault my rolled leaf friend,
at rest again.
He is what he is:
the real McCoy.