The dance

II
Waxing poetic, of late. Becoming,
                                 by degrees, the poetess I am, grateful I’m a woman, not
                                                                      a Poe or po’boy though I do sing for my
                                                                                                               supper but
hunger not, as the words fill more than my soul.  My woman’s touch,
              touches much and my garden grows flowers of age. I tarry at my work and by which...I mean - which?  Lullabies
       still linger
         in concord with
                             the time.
                                  I stave off victuals but never for them and on them, it’s arguable no
                                    irony
                                      is lost. My fast comes by choice and only from striving comes starving. Our lodgings, here, there, where? everywhere,
                                                                   like Seuss or in Thoreau.
 Today,  I sew not (“as
                               a woman’s dress, at least, is
                                           never done”) but sow
                                                                                                                           still,
pensive as all
      since
           Eve but quiet, not – do you hear the roar?  Can you feel the thrill
                                 of a day gone well?  And as I write- that irony? The littlest, a girl of 
                                                                                    three,
                                                                                    two apples holds she.
                                                                                           at
                                                                                             the window now, tempting
                                                                                                                        me to
up and
    at ‘em, grab ‘em, to Goblin Market go we for a lesson or three on the wares of such
             monstrosities.  Growing, going,
                                   gone.

II

But instead, we dance and I think of Tennyson, meaning to think
                                                 of Eliot, mixed up for obvious reasons but also that I’m
                                                        thankful for this dance, that I danced with her, that
                                                                            it’s a gift and she shares her Pink
Lady which I bite as we spin and the juice,no longer forbidden, squirts like a christening as
         we twirl until I dizzy first and pass her to her sister.