Sonnet Sunday 2: The Dancers
I don’t remember when I wrote this particular poem. It was sometime before November 2005; I know this because I included it in a mostly-absurd attempt to pull some of my poems together for publication. Most of them aren’t worth sharing (except maybe THE EPIC TRAGEDIE OF NATE THE SNAKE for the sheer absurd stupidity of it), but this one did fairly well at capturing a moment: a leaf, caught on a spider web, hanging from the crabapple tree in my parents’ front yard.
Editor’s note, by the way: I have modified this from its original form. I call this out mostly to admit that I once wrote the line “whispered unseen nothings.”
I saw a leaf, suspended, in midair.
It seemed as though all laws of nature froze,
Allowing it to dance; as if it chose
To waltz upon the breeze without a care.
Its partner, dressed in finest gossamer,
Kept pace, and held the dancer steadily.
They leaped and twirled, defying gravity;
The wind their only choreographer.
And as they danced, I longed to take a part,
And gently reached my hand out to the leaf.
It spun away, as though it foresaw grief;
Yet still I grasped it, though it broke my heart.
Its dance was over. Still without a sound,
It fluttered feebly, then fell to the ground.