ballet

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It was silent storytelling:

words and noise traded for music and movement

among the soft swishing of skirts, tapping of feet

and a solid scuff-marked stage underneath.

All tethers of reality, identity thrown off

no names, but feelings and faces half in a dream

no worries, but wild forgetting within practiced routine

no time, but the infinite now -- 


spotlighted: fragile and strong, safe and free.








****

author's note(s): 
  1. As a child (wow, it feels really strange to say that), I was a ballet dancer for six years: I started when I was three and stopped at age nine. 
  2. This was originally written in 2020

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