Drunk on fairy tales and myths,
I planted a rock at a crossroads at sunset,
in hopes that a mountain would grow.
One with a cave, and a proper dragon,
a talking dragon with four legs and two wings,
who might, if I asked nicely, tell me stories.

I wished on the first evening star,
and put a four-leaf clover on top.
I didn’t have a rabbit’s foot,
but dragons and rabbits don’t get along well anyway.
I blew a dandelion I had saved from that afternoon.
I hope that’s enough.

I went back every night, until I forgot.
The mountain never grew.
I think maybe a squirrel saw me bury the rock,
and thought it was a nut,
and dug it up and stole it.
Squirrels are like that.

I tried to go out again,
with a better rock,
one with more sparkles,
but by then it was too rainy.
I didn’t think a mountain would grow if it was too muddy.
And besides, the dandelions were all gone.
So I asked for a flower pot and a seed.
Dragons like flowers, don’t they?
I do.
I buried the rock in the flower pot,
alone with one of my baby teeth
and a lucky penny for treasure.

It was easier to remember to wish on the first evening star
when I didn’t have to go all the way to the crossroad.
The seed and the rock slept the winter away.
Something is growing in the flower pot.
I hope it’s pretty.
I hope it’s an apple tree.
Dragons like apples, don’t they?
I do.

Star light, star bright,
first star I see tonight,
wish I may, wish I might,
have the wish I wish tonight.

I wish for a dragon to tell me stories
so I can live forever.
Good night, evening star.


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