Invocation of the Water Dragon

I tend the dragon lair–the solar plexus–so that she will visit often. She, silver and moss-scaled with copper plaited claws, blue-gold fire that arcs like a comet. I call and she rises like a strange burnished planet; up from the caves of the subterranea, up from her place of glistening stalactites and the reverberating voices of water, up from salt and the emerald weeds, she rises, coiling and uncoiling again.

She unfurls her jade wings, twisting and roving with her serpent's neck: transparent, veined and scored with branches of deep vermilion. She enters me, fills me, expands beyond me,  rippling like ocean waves under a midnight sun. She casts herself in ten directions, radiating mist and heat. I expand with her. Rearing up, silver and moss and copper plates, hung with emerald, flashing jade. When I am shrinking, I call her. When I am fearful and overcome by shame, I summon her. 

And I feel her rise within me and I move as she: swinging with seaweeds, scintillating, radiant, potent, head aloft like the crest of a sail, amber eyes gleaming with the wisdom of the ages.