XXXI. Sonnets for Dancer

Follow me not, for nor can you

find these flowers of an unborn Spring;

for dancers append to the Earthly hue

the lights of lingering, of passionate tu’s.

Cast me out, should you need to,

for in my own heart have I left this confused

mockery of light, where toes touch due

cullings of spirit, the brightness perfused.

In time it may pass, the bravoed charade,

though the last encore simmers, glowing passade

still in the skies, minds, and ties

to these fetters, druthers in mourning song

as I sing to the praises of the coming moon

the coming comes lastly, the summing too soon.