The Ballerina

She floats...
like a butterfly with gossamer wings;
a hummingbird that hovers 
at the mouth of a summer flower.
Her feet don’t seem to ever 
touch the ground
and her audience,
spellbound,
sits silently in awe.

She drifts...
as if afloat upon the notes
of Wagner, or Puccini, 
that soar above the orchestra to play
among the froth of her skirt 
upon the stage
and lift her
like a marionette, aloft
with no strings.

She drops...
as graceful as the morning blooming rose,
into pool of satin and tulle,
that bathes her in angelic white,
as the theatre at last erupts 
in wild applause
that washes over her
in undulating waves
of praise.



april 2005
Janet Reid