Untitled watch her fingers
I
Intricatel
weave
Invisible threads
Of pattern As
her hair
Flying like
fire
About her swaying form Tangles
Her
feet
Slip lightly over the earth In
rhythm
to a
Only audible
To some she
music
in her
is
mind
strange
For her solitary dance
Performed more out of whim than actual purpose
To me, she
is
beauty
A dying ember of courage An And
all
•
interpretation of depth
that
I
long to someday become
Shelley
M. Chamberlain
