When she dances
she glides like Fred Astaire.
She swings like Ginger Rogers.
She struts like Madonna.
She sails across the floor like a schooner
She leaps like a gazelle
When she dances her feet carry her,
but it is her soul that makes
her fly.
When the music begins
gone are the lines on her face,
aches and pains forgotten;
two left feet no more.
Erased are her fears;
anxieties tucked in for the night.
There is only the music.
She closes her eyes.
The drums mirror her heartbeat.
The music fills her.
Her cup runneth over
and she dances.
Soon the music will stop.
Music cannot last forever.
She'll go back to being the
herself,
awkward and shy.
No longer a gazelle,
she no longer leaps.
The lines will reappear,
Her feet will once again touch the earth,
but not yet.
The drums beat,
the music plays.
Just one more dance.
“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”
Martha Graham