The Dancer

When she dances,
she is like unfurling dawn,
a spark plug into the Universe,
limbs pin-stitching star fabric,
communing a bridge
woven of sunrise and supernova,
between here and heaven,
her séance of all-thing;
an antenna to creation,
she is pure wave.

And then she stops,
suddenly aware her short breath,
her sighing knees,
were they always this way?
The communion ceases,
the void of vibrations still ringing in her ears,
the web of stars closes up,
once swirling at light-speed,
slowing,
then still,
she is human again.

The silence is too loud,
her Earthern heart,
its too-solid flesh,
longs to be God.
She corrals her cobbled knees,
her older-than-she spine,
closes her eyes,
and dances again.