In the young midnight of life spirits tethered to a pale rose,
a blossoming Maypole
that protects their innocent orbits,
soft, unfolding petals of fire
illuminating the currents on which they glide.
Love of the movement!
Emotion of flight!
Precise abandon!
Courageous body and physical color!
Love of the dance!
And then so suddenly a broken stalk,
the rythmic waves crash out of course,
tidal emptiness
severing the ribbons onto which they hold,
thorns pricking smooth spirited cheeks,
teardrops and blood, moistening the stage.
Yearning for answers.
Gazing into these salty, ruby pools,
a movement is detected against the starless sky,
familiar choregraphy, but whose?
Revealed in tears and blood, like crimson mirrors,
It is they who remain aloft,
firing the sky in graceful streams,
circling together
to generate the light of a rose within,
finally knowing the beautiful truth,
She never held them up at all,
it was a loving illusion to strengthen youthful wings
so they might fly.
And now they do.
Sometimes crooked, sometimes tired.
pure and perfect though
caressing the collective wound
to remember, always remember,
why they are here.
Love of the movement!
Emotion of flight!
Precise abandon!
Courageous body, physical color!
Love of the dance!
Jeff Spoden, 1989
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