Dance, baby, dance

I just don’t understand why
everyone isn’t always listening to
music and dancing in the cool,
damp air.

I want to see your arms move
through the air, as though you’re
floating, luxuriating in water,
Your lips stretching into a
smile, your eyes closed to external
realities, stars twinkling through
your whirling ecstasy.

Your hips sway out of beat,
sometimes, hitting the mark,
music utterly filling you,
peaceful serenity or rapturous
jubilation bursting forth,
You could change seasons, dear,
with those hips.

Fly, baby, fly.
I’ll catch you if you fall.
You’ll tumble
into sweetly-scented fields
of green and purple blooms,
into my soil-scented arms.

You float through great puffs
of smokey clouds, that suspend

y  o  u

in the many universes in which
you dance.


© Kat Manica 2017




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