poem

 The Dance

Imagine a world where

Leaves cling to trees

All through the long winter siege.

Anything green gets cloistered

Into the hollows of swaying trunks.

The cure for this unhealthy obsession

Is simply to sit and watch the leaves

Fall, waltzing back and forth,

Drifting in whispering autumn breezes,

Meandering along jazzy paths

In ever downward progression..

We aren’t much different.

We’ve always been free

And falling from the very beginning.

Born into being past spring or summer

It’s always just been autumn here

And all we clutch are rings of smoke.

So many years of wasted white knuckled grips,

We could never stop winter.

But you think you’re just dying,

Caught in a long downward tug,

Hardly worth the effort to resist,

(Even though you’re actually dancing as you do it

Sashaying to and fro

Shaking your hips

Having an absolute ball

Without even knowing it.)

You’re too busy laughing

And wailing your way toward some becoming,

Ebbing and then wafting on gusts

Of lover’s sighs

Of children’s merry cries

Of mother’s last whispered goodbye,

Bobbing along like you’re flying 

Or floating in an infinite massless ether,

Your steady inertial drift

Occasionally quickened by

The inexplicable joy of unexpected lift

Just before another deep dip.

11/7/21