I. Sonnets for Dancer

If divination were my practice, you would oracle claim

since to look at you is to feel some bright future ring,

since a look from you, unaccoutred and clean,

seems a century in worth, a prognostic dream.

Still I remain but the grain from which springs

the care that you tend from your love bakery;

but still I am but only your song-sing driving

to dance for life’s timeless themes. Savory–

I thought, to your sweets– if I could only be

the Truth to your Beauty, the all-you-need.

To know there is nothing in my sputtering speech,

I, neither William nor Keats, seek but to please

be naught but your truant muse,

the one awed by your soul in tutu.