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10/10/11 - (1)
Her Last Dance
In her third day of preparing for her return journey, Our mother drowses in the twilight hours That precede the ancient sages' sleep of the ages.
In her purposeful postponement of her soul's going, She's scoring, orchestrating, choreographing Her last dance, calculated to gather her family,
Hold us, with our rapt, cathartic sadness, In the palms of her hands, which rest on her chest — A ballerina performing a pas de deux, with God.
In this fragile, perilous state of balance, Between breath and silence, Only her weary reflexes are keeping her dancing.
Entranced by the artistry of her exquisite mortality, As she glides, en pointe, across the shaded stage, We hold our breath, in sympathy.
10/10/11 - (1)
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