It could be refined,


in essence, divinebut still imperfect, impure


unsure of self, in movement and mind.


Feet patter in the wings hesitent,


hoping,


waiting for the moment of suspended grace,
of beautiful rhythm.


Still, like ice, burning, legs flying, leaping, heaving breathing, music all around you.


Fleeting, for a moment, fingers brushing,
eyes locking, turn, and away.


Stomping feet with hopeful partners,
we dance for only each other.