Midnight Ballerina
beneath a snow-dome sky of stars,
the stage of cobbled pavers
a symphony of resting cars.
Pirouettes upon the clover,
arabesques across the dirt,
ankles click and twist
from the years of unused hurt.
The bun not neatly pinned,
nor the costume dusty rose,
grey cotton drapes her form
in the wind, which gently blows
“Come out from where you lay,
perform before the night,”
she heeds the call each evening,
dancing silently till light.
For they’re better out than in,
the passions which you keep,
if locked within your body
they steal ones mind from sleep.
Better used than not,
remain the talents of your hands;
if left to idle long,
talent crumbles into sand.
She curtseys for the daisies,
for the clothesline takes a bow;
The Midnight Ballerina
may sleep softly, soundly now.
catherinesietkiewicz.com 