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