Tiny dancers spilled into the room
it the most beautiful thing I've ever seen
they were the seasons dancing together, a beautiful year,
I wanted to intertwine my fingers with theirs and wrap myself in the silk of a morning sky
but they were sunbeams;
I could feel them, see them, but they were millions of miles away from my earthly skin
In that moment, I wanted to shovel away all the dirt that rested on the surface of my flesh,
to dig up my roots, to throw them at the sky
If only I could emerge from an icy ground and into the bleak midday sun, the soft white light of content,
If I could bloom toward the light and crawl up brick houses and hug the chimneys and let them warm me
but then the dancers scatter the room toward the exist, an abrupt, unsatisfying finale
I shrivel up like a sun-soaked worm and bury my face in the mud
I see a familiar darkness and I find it hopeless that the dancers will ever come back
I begin to forget I ever saw them at all.