The first time my brother danced-
really danced,
more than just a faint
nodding of head
or an amusement for
laughing friends,
it was beautiful-
a moment felt only once.

He felt that bewildering tinge
of awe when you
let go of yourself for
just a moment, just enough
to allow that first shaky step,
then the next.

He started out stiffly,
moved from side to side
with blushing cheek,
stared at the cool linoleum.

Then music became more than
merely words.

I wonder if it was like the first
time I ever wrote a poem-
you know, really wrote
a poem- screamed myself
onto paper in a puddle
of mangled emotion-
words became more than
merely letters.

I stared at them,
shocked by this
extension of myself
staring back in black ink.

He seemed just as shocked
by the sweat on his forehead
and the smile on his lips.

He stared at the floor,
scuffed with the beauty
of his first real
movement to music.