She is a river flowing steadily
across the creek-bed floor
rediscovering lands lost.
She Arabesques beneath regret,
Tour Jetes above scorned love
her silence silhouetted by the stage light sun.
In her current, words are not needed
because her music says enough.
She shimmers under morning light,
swaying, bending, swelling, falling
in movements that have no names.
She dances to notes we can’t hear.
Years have hardened her feet to callouses
but rivers move better along worn stones
and the best expression is born of lessons sorely learned.
Her surface is beauty, but pain lurks in the deep
and I catch glimpses of her kaleidoscope soul
within the reflection of Arabesque and Tour Jete
and every new creation of unnamed motion.
I am submerged in this tonic immobility—mesmerized—
knowing that I may never reach the source of her river.
And yet content to float endlessly in her current.