Dancer on the Stage, Dancer on my page
My pencil glides with her skirt’s flowing lines,
gently sketching subtle designs,
then it pirouettes on its sharp toe,
shading her susurrating shadows,
while the paper trembles at each stroke,
like the brown, windblown leaves of an old oak.
The dancer leaps across that stage
while my heavy hand vaults across my page,
as I rush to capture her dark hair
thrown through the air.
I pause to see the dancer on the stage
captured on my page,
but to my surprise the dancer on my page
was not the dancer on the stage
she was new with clumsy steps, out of place,
and a smile bent into an odd grimace.
I frowned at the uncanny image
and her disproportioned visage
but then I saw her dark eyes brightly shining
and her steps proudly flying,
and I realize my drawing was not the dancer on the stage,
but the a child of my mind given shadow and shape on the blank page.
I was and am proud of her
and will forever treasure
I had to set her on her dance
through my bent and dusty sketch book
and I hope one day someone will look
to see this child of mine living with a vivacity
that is all too often absent in me.