With a blueberry-grape flavored hoop orbiting my waist, I’m dancing
Up in my garden waving insanely into the neighbor’s yard.
I see the bees buzzing low; they have a glistening coat,
A transparent trench of hairs, slender wings operating smoothly,
Relaxed in the flow of the winding grasses,
while clovers kiss the fair light of the sun.
Here are my bones,
Moving for a time among them.
We sway together to the melody of trees.
The soles of my feet speak to the dirt recently rained on
And I can feel the vapors rising in the heat.
On these porous slabs of mud dried-over, crusted and cracked,
I’m a careless fairy on this perfect stage.
In my theater for no one, I’ll amuse myself.
Peter Pan Syndrome floats the hoop in front,
twirling it; it’s held in place on an invisible shelf
or an axel, but only when it’s practical.
Then I’ll glide the entwined helix in my legs on a beat,
Like the magician I am with illusory tricks,
I’ll pull out a flower or a whiskey neat.