You are not a dancer,
But I like to watch your mind do pirouettes
As you take to the page.
You are far too gangly,
And your feet are much too large and cumbersome,
To accompany me to a ballroom,
But I could watch you waltz solo for hours,
As you labor gently over your words.
"Natural grace" has never applied to you
In the physical sense,
But your thoughts could rival
Fosse's signature moves in beauty and brilliance.
You are not a dancer,
But I like to imagine
That we tango in the moonlight
With words tumbling forth
In our precision steps:
One, two, three, one.
I'm not nearly as graceful as you are
In this realm, but someday
I hope to be the Ginger Rodgers
To the Fred Astaire of writers.