The Dance

The Dance




Patchouli incense smokes
curling up and through
the gnarled branches
of the elder tree burner.
It wisps 'round the opened books
littering my mind, curling
into dragoned corners.
A faery dances.

Eyes, bleary, stare
at memorizing screen,
fingers play across the keyboard
urged on by a muse
who knows its mind--fingers
mere tools to complete the journey
from mind to materialization.
The muse dances.

Printer hums and hiccups,
spitting out poem-ed sheet--
for more distanced view
as the editor persona
rises and steps in; her features
stern. She allows no argument.
The muse crawls into a corner.
The red pencil dances.

Fresh incense, dragons blood
rising. Red flames curling 'round
the page, incinerating words, phrases.
Others burn into existence, searing
meaning into stone. Even the pencil
will quail before the majesty of
the whirling eye. The poet has spoken.
The dragon dances.

The poet reads aloud the words
as meaning flows and phrases waltz.
Layers level and the profound
speaks its mind. Again, she reads
and smiles. A tweak of synonym
and the poem settles into itself.
The world resounds in magnificent silence.
The poem dances.