A Poem a Day (684): The dance

 
 
We blow out the dance,
circling as bees do, nectar strewn
between.
 
We tip-toe around what is, what was,
what may be. But nothing
is set in stone.
 
We tread a board invisible,
try to see, but we are blind.
We get on anyway.
 
Sometimes this fragile ground
gives way when we wanna sway,
and we just are.
 
There is only look, a glance,
a something unsaid, a depart from
composure, the raw,
 
the who we are beneath,
outside the goldfish bowl,
skin and bones and all we are.
 
You can throw gold in the fountain,
but it won’t return, and who we were
meant to be is memory.
 
We take a barefoot walk,
drift in the light of the splayed moon,
and cast a coin at maybe.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 30, 2024