Dragon Eggs

Walking along the shore with a dear writing companion:
imagination is sparked.

Churned stone,
brimming yokes,
fiery gems:
a hidden lode
of gleaming gold or
mica dust, baubles
the color of rust.

The skeletons of driftwood could be the bones of dragons

The consistency of lace,
burnished beyond all likelihood,
at once corrugated and smooth,
the way silk rides through water
or wraps around a fist of rock.

Compact burdens, the onus of being,
about to be born, on the verge of
being delivered through splinters and gaps
into the impossible light.

The Writer Elkhound, Thora, stares pensively in greyscale.