SLAM!

Impromptu Dance

Behind veils of old lace curtains wrapped around me, I prance,
to the sounds of Mystic Moods, in a strange ballet
for neighbor ladies whose smiles were kind
right from the moment I made my grand entrance.
What occasion or adventure brings me to sashay
in the presence of these women as they sit aligned

on the sofa, chatting, I cannot say. Do they see a nuisance,
or are they bemused at the sight of a child so seriously at play?
I float extravagantly with the music, completely defined
by a dreamy, guileless vision of romance.
Enveloped in a fairy-tale daydream, I sway
and pirouette and cavort until I've become entwined
in gossamer dreams and old lace curtains. I lose my poise.

Red with effort and an inarticulate sense of being, I'm glad I took the chance
to enter the room without permission, thinking first or making an assay.
Had I thought to ask mom first, she would have declined,
aware that stage fright might leave me trembling and standing in a trance,
or if siblings hankered for the spotlight, it could turn out to be a melee,
or some dreadful mix of tears with all of that combined.

Dizzy from my gyrations, I'm light-headed and slightly off balance.
Nothing in the women's faces or posture says that they will betray
my self assurance or disparage my undesigned,
presumptuous, spontaneous performance,
yet, I reel shyly at their applause and compliments, and walk away.
The turning point has gone. The freedom of movement and spirit is behind.
What I had to articulate was in the dance. It has no voice.

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Everything hangs on words, including ourselves. Often we only learn what we think -- and who we are -- when we write. -- Roger Rosenblatt, Family University Professor in Writing