Shadows, breath, and twine

[I don't know if I got ANYWHERE near where I wanted to be with this.]

It breathed. No one
knows/knew can find
proof of
what it was. Is. Could be.
Fragments of shadows held together by
fishing twine and heartstrings
hold more concreteness,
and we are left piecing the abstract
into absolute.
But it breathed. And
it came from where
the ideas come from.

Just another dance poem

[I can't say exactly how I feel when I throw myself into ballet, but I guess that's why we have poetry.]

The only way to describe this is love--the knowledge
that this is the happiest I've ever been beats through my blood
in time with the music.

and You've taught me that
comfort does not necessarily bring happiness;
there is a better kind of Comfort you find
through its opposite.

physical pleasure does not bring happiness.
Muscle, bone, sweat, work:
inglorious things meet with what they call
Art, Motion.  Beauty. (life, I think)

Whether or not I capture these
I have captured the love.
(It has captured me.)

Drops

[freewrite! WHOOT.]

It's almost impossible to tell
that the rain outside my walls
isn't the crackling in a campfire--
spitting drops of flame
through creaking logs.

But then a night breeze
pulls itself through my window
smelling like wet. and damp. and lakewater,
wind brushing past the pine trees
like it's conducting a symphony of
water droplets.

Strings

[I don't know what this is. I've realized, though, that I need to practice to find words.]

Write what you see,
write the truth.

I see people pulled by
invisible strings
and tripping over
stones and things
get tangled up, but
just press on--
not sure if they are
right or wrong.