Merry Christmas butters

She breathed a dream spell,
soft in my ear. See,
a dragons egg, prescient vision.
You will make this. See.

Turning in space, a dark gleam,
grained fine and whorled, Oak?
An ache to reach and heft this dream,
feel the weight, contemplate construction,
materials, tools, stains, technique, time.
Dawn.

Awaken to a crippled body,
arthritic hand, ticking clock,
panic, or something like it.
I can't do it.

The ache of a heart/egg beating within,
swirled deep crimson, rings thick and thin,
knotted with age, wear from being a tree.
A beautiful thing, call it a dragons egg.
See?

Far from lusterous, but still,
glossy in those life rubbed places,
above the scars and scrapes, gouges,
where the resin of life seeps to fill,
those wounds from former years.

But, the spell's taken hold,
woodpile's become a regular haunt,
searching for dragons eggs hidden there.

Perhaps I'll find one.
We'll see.