THE WALTZ
He can’t dance, but there is one selection of music that stops his movements whenever the music channel plays it. He calls to me, “Come. Hurry. Listen to this.” And, we listen, sitting down, not dancing, except in our souls or wherever it is that we feel. I buy the CD, Dmitri Shostakovich’s Waltz No.2. I play it on occasion. And again we dance.
swaying, twirling
in three-quarter-time
in perfect step
hearts together or apart
the music plays on
Ribbons
THE RED DRESS
One holiday season I sew up a red dress to wear. It is of fine wool, form fitting in the bodice with a flaring skirt that emphasizes my small waist. The front neckline is high, but the back has a wide deep V, which requires that I wear a strapless bra. Uncomfortable yes, but how else can I shine? And I hope to shine that holiday season more than the lights on any Christmas tree.
night of stars
the street lamp fizzles
and goes out
Presence
Odysse y An elusive floating. I reach out and clasp sunbeams. I move forward, searching for I know not what, yet, understanding...
