she’ll always be
our ballerina girl,
giving a twirl or
a pas de deux,
or
dressed as the
chocolate soldier
dancing her little heart out
somewhere up there,

and yet she’ll always be here
pottering about,
sometimes drinking a
beer,
in the kitchen
dancing to Whitney or making
onion gravy

we’ll miss her dreadfully
tearfully
and she’d say
don’t cry for me,
but we will.