Like an apple on toothpicks,
the elderly ballerina
tiptoes across the yard.
Finding the pond,
she asks
the dark waters
for their old reflections.
Like a duck,
she submerges her head,
draining away
the makeup
and the years.
Emerging as swan,
she swims the shadows—
Echappe, pas ballonne, glissade.
Remembering
across the years,
across the algean floor,
freeing dreams
of Barishnikov.
Word Wabbit 
[ Smiles ] Fabulous poetry!
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Ahh, thank you. 🙂
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[ Smiles ] You are welcome!
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Like an apple on a toothpick …is that some dancing term of art…if not it damn well should be.. well done
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Thanks! 🙂
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Lovely!
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Thank you!
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This is wonderful. What a beautiful picture you paint with your words!
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Thank you. This poem is about my mother. 🙂
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