Tanka Prose

                                                                                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