The Dancers

Like a million dancers, graceful

With dresses of every hue

Like a million dancers, waiting

And impatient for their cue,

On pointed toes they rest alone

And shuffle nervously

Until something wily calls them

And so slyly sets them free.

They fall upon the stage with grace

And land upon the bed

Of others, green with envy and

Upholding emerald threads.

The dancers are so beautiful,

All dressed in finery:

The robust reds and burnished golds

And orange's majesty

They dance among the ruins of

The fragile, fleeting flowers.

They spin around upon the ground

And dance for many hours.

They tire as they die, and turn

A jaded brownish grey,

And finally they lay to rest

At end of weary day.