1028 hrs
SO. Dear and Faithful Patient Reader;
Here we are again, still drifting.
I saw a woman dancing the other day, and as you may or may not know, I am a man who appreciates dance. My ex-wife was a ballerina for many years, and she honed for me my appreciation of it.
And as I watched this woman dance, I was transported as I always am, to a place within me that I thought long-dead.
She gave to me a poem, placed it deftly into my brain, and I seek an outlet for it. What better place than the blog, and who better to read it to you than The Cunning Fennec Fox?
But I know this woman, and I wonder if I should give her a poem about her art and how it moves me so? Will it be read incorrectly? Is it too corny? What do y'all think?
Well, for better or worse, here y'all go. Shall we press on? Splendid!
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Ballerina
I Saw You . . .
from a million
miles away . . . You were lost under the
weight of the light; the lumens like leaden tons that should have burdened you
mercilessly. You carried them not;
a shrugged-off shroud. Cast them away as
if photons don’t mean a thing.
And I was in the
dark, to the side where your light does not reach. Not this light. Not light like that . . . and you moved like liquid over a stony
heart. You moved like air over the face
of the mountain; you are unchanged by the rough face. It is the mountain that changes with your
passing.
You and your art
shape the craggy peaks that jut from my own rocky soil; you erode me into
something that resembles . . . man . . . and neither of us recognizes me.
I See You Still . . .
in the darkness under the lids
of my eyes . . . I fear to open them
that I might lose the vision . . . the memory of your dance. Your movement is magic; unheard incantations
weaving spells;
Much like the grinning moon, you ensorcel me. I watch your face and wonder . . . did I ever
feel so good?
Am I Too
bold? Does my heart say too much? Or are my scant and and meager words too little?
I know not why I began to write
these words at all. What can be said by
my limited voice that you have not yet said with your limitless bounding? Why, when I see you dance, does it feel as if
you prance upon my broken heart? How
can something so pure and lovely devastate me so? How am I in love with an art that kills me
again and again?
as did we all- dreamers who dream to live while
you live the dreams of dance. Go on.
Gavotte in the unending clouds; dance against the Dawn, and shame her with your
beauty. The Sun Himself would not rise
were it not for his own laws to follow.
But he does so with reticence. He
fears vexing you. You awe us all just so.
I am struck dumb
by the din of your swirling silence; you deafen me with sights that must burn
my eyes, for they are full of tears, and I weep, glad that I still
feel. You mend the broken things inside
me and you drift along unaware of how I Fall and Rise like Lazarus. You simply do not know. And I can never tell
you. My words are too frail; It is
lexicon I lack.
I will not ever tell you
. . .
I Feel The
Breeze . . .
of
you. I am battered by the molecules spun as
you whirl across my life like dice, cast.
I long to reach for such beauty . . . but inside my heart’s beating cage
I know my hands will come down empty.
And
just as you had danced into my consciousness, you have, without batting an eye,
danced out from within it;
. . . all that is left for me to embrace is the void
you have made with your leaving . . .
The Cunning Fennec Fox
01 december 0137 hrs
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