Poetry is a dance
Of woven words
Crafted from the intricate print
Of memory.
Like that of a widow's woven art,
Patterns unveil the melodies
Of our hearts.

Then may we indulge in the fabric
Of love,
And dance upon fair dewdrops.
May we spin the initial swirls
Of sweet silk,
Beneath the shimmer
Of the resplendent moon.

Till the thread coarsens at a core
Of wearied entanglements.
The ghost of silk glows far away
Haunting the distant margins
Of our memories.

Scorch this knot
Of coarse wire,
Lest the dance of rhetoric will cease,
The fine fabric of love will sever,
The melodies in our hearts will mute.
Burn this knot. Blaze it with
the endurance
Of timeworn love.

The dance beckons its final stage,
Where we ignite the warmth
Of familiar eyes,
Lure them into a new dance
Of wordplay.

We are all but weavers
Spinning satin spheres
Dancing in discourse
To the symphony
Of our hearts.