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.