The Dancer by Ann Walters

She was riverine, fluid. Grace
in her fingers, in the pads of her feet,

in the supple way she stooped from the waist

to pluck notes one by one
and lift them in the arc of her arms,

offering music to the sky like so many songs of birds,

like rain falling upward
and condensing into dreams

that washed her face with a simile of spring.
She was liquid motion. She was the dance.

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