Are not their breathing bodies,
Stretching tendons, awkward thighs
But pink shadows underneath
Make unyielding figures glide
With the smoothness of the polished floors
And a sureness of mind
That knows how
Chopin's Polonaise
Will end,
Though it seems at times
There's no extraction possible
From the feeling it conveys.
Maybe it's not that way,
Maybe these children are just growing away
From what they will never be again
And learning something important
With each memorized wave of hand,
And maybe it's not for me to ever know
What the future is
Or how the past could resolve so.
The pink light provides assurance
That it will all be fine --
Besides, it's just too poignant
Otherwise.
