There is a dance my mother taught me,
that branches into a joyful two step,
sunlight falling on the water and trees,
everything opening in the whispers of
a free fall, a breeze
Some days I fall short of life, a nervous gazelle
in my stomach, a long neck stretched full
of unwanted sorrows, a ghost shaft in my windows
But I have a natural interest in beautiful things —
the cardinals against snow, the tiny hands of a wood chuck
eating scraps by the porch, and I see
everything moving in its own light, in dances I do not
know, but recognize as soft flows
through the solitude
And there is always my mother with patient fingers
around a cameo, her thumb moving
back and forth across its delicate face.
A limbo of joy, a crush of sun splashed fragments,
here and there, holding gold.