I toss my dreams skyward,
like confetti,
born of my own stardust
sanctified in pearls of sweat
from my heartbeat.
They glimmer in the indigo,
aloof, innocent and free,
dancing on the blue rings of Jupiter,
like the moon's own illusion,
flickering in borrowed glow,
intangible,
never wholly aflame.
The heavens pour them back into
the southern sky,
once I have grown hands that can hold them,  
swift blurs of aquamarine,
cinders of plum, flares of copper,
echoes of coronal gold,
falling stars that long to ignite me
and I,
having climbed this mountain,
need only to claim one.