When Words Dance

She said my prose

reads like a dance,

that my words flow,

dip, and twirl

in graceful elegance.

So touched by her words was I,

I might never be the same.

My words dance!

To find the tempo,

the grace

of sole to floor,

fingertip on key,

pen against page.

She speaks of what I know,

have waited a lifetime—

this dance.

To phrases

birthed in the pulse of the sea;

awakened by a babe’s sudden cry,

June sunsets;

the thrum of a Harley

in the canyon,

along a rushing river bed;

I dance

to the beat of eagles’ wings,

clouds stampeding across western sky,

timpani’s mounting crescendo

hushed by falling snow;

the glide of silken glove over fingertips, then wrist, then forearm, past elbow;

counterpointed by a pulsing fan one August night,

the rise and fall of his chest—

the dance.

dkw, May 23, 2016

inspired by Sandra Rhoads