She sits on a tufted stool,

Facing away from the door,

A child’s book in hand.

Perched on the edge of their bed,

Enrapt as she reads,

The three year old grand-girl twins.

Her words transport them

To far away places

To tales of derring-do.

Of fairy princesses with golden hair,

Of kings and dragons and elves,

And of life in enchanted forests.

But standing there

I see a different scene

As time slips into the past.

The room begins to change,

Tchaikovsky fills my inner space.

Stravinsky, Lully and Ravel.

I see a world where oboes chase the fife.

A space defined by Ballon, En Cloche, En Dehors,

As legs flash beneath a tutu of lavender tulle.

She senses my presence

And turns toward me,

A knit brow, a quizzical look.

In answer to the unspoken question

I quickly reply,

“Nothing dear, I’m just watching you dance.”

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An excerpt from “A Mixed Bag” and tribute to my wife, my own “ballerina.”

Rick Fontes