In the hushed hour, she emerges from her cocoon
one limb at a time, eases through the cobweb casing
to step into the afterlife of the full moon.
She feels erotic, naked, though she wears a silken gown
the color of spring leaves, and pearls of dew.
A syncopated wind slips over her skin
and she begins to dance, one with sky and earth.
Curls of red dust swirl upward as her feet lift
and twirl, hesitant at first, then fleet and swift,
taking no notice of rocks and ruts, feeling light,
free of her perilous existence, perfect in body,
sinuous with longing, transformed in the lunar glow.
She is fire, wind and luminosity, propelled
on a zephyr, wild with power, creating God.
Nightbirds call in the quiet chaos left by her shadow.
From her hands she unleashes ribbons braided
of fears and failures, laced with heart fragments.
She spins tenaciously, arms spread like wings and dances
for all she has missed in her lonely space.
This road knows her feet, feels the beat she hears
in her head, a concerto for a lone dancer, with grace.