This is today, the air gray with juniper pollen slipping its way
into wobbly knees and brain matter, dragging into sludge
all the water that makes up a body princess.
If a poet could be a princess and if today she is stuck
on a bridge sneezing through a dragon’s discriminating riddles.

If all but two of the flowers are roses and all but two of the flowers are daisies and all but two of the flowers are tulips…

This epic fight our girl is far from up to, possibly unable to get
over, head off, stand ground against assaults
of logic and programming. And in the rock
towering up from the brook
the sword of intelligence,
the sword of beauty,
the sword of friendship,

how many flowers are there?

It’s all very exhausting picking one’s crucial flowers
and swords. But maybe,
with help from all the animal friends in the forest,
they could kick the knees of the dragon,
they could make the dragon feel less than with their goadings,
or they could convince the princess the choice to play with the beast
is just another riddle. Maybe together they could come up
with the answer 3.

Later, off the bridge and on the shore of the bank,
any shore, any bank (it doesn’t matter),
they will all happen upon the sword of words,
that balmy burn and wound healer,
and this will make the poet princess feel better, stronger
thrusting lies and testimony into the history of tomorrow.