Ballerinas in Seattle; Sometime in the Nineties

She's never been skittish about wind-chill, though she folds her arms across her chest,
Her eyes droop from the rain, the toes of her Pointe shoes gleaming satin box springs
Legs are tiny, she is half the size she will grow into, yet, she moves like an untied ribbon
Girls gossip, mimicking the women they've yet to dance into.

Her eyes droop from the rain, the toes of her Pointe shoes gleaming satin box springs
She's waiting on a street corner, though up above the older girls stretch beatifically
Girls gossip, mimicking the women they've yet to dance into.
Mostly she doesn't speak, but she likes to listen - to the other girls, and to the wind.

She's waiting on a street corner, though up above the older girls stretch beatifically
When she walks she forms words, these steps are her first poems.
Mostly she doesn't speak, but she likes to listen - to the other girls, and to the wind.
There's a mirror in the lobby, upon looking she cannot see herself

When she walks she forms words, these steps are her first poems.
These are the first full moon dawns of change, and her feet are bound
There's a mirror in the lobby, upon looking she cannot see herself
The angles of her face turned upward, changeable, always never the same.

These are the first full moon dawns of change, and her feet are bound
Laced together like thin ropes; she enjoys costumes only when she's alone.
The angles of her face turned upward, changeable, always never the same.
She once dreamed of something more than a squawking group of girls.

Laced together like thin ropes; she enjoys costumes only when she's alone.
Legs are tiny, she is half the size she will grow into, yet, she moves like an untied ribbon
She once dreamed of something more than a squawking group of girls.
She's never been skittish about wind-chill, though she folds her arms across her chest.

a/n: a pantoum