A Library of Rumba
She was there before
And younger after
Way after she stepped into a galaxy of heaven.
But it wasn’t just an untouched sky
It was the floor her toes brushed against
And groomed into a moonlit carpet of stars that won’t ever bury.
Never bury, she said.
To unearth her forbidden love of dance,
She entered a courtyard, leaving behind a dark, enchanted forest –
A gathering of ancient trees that sparked a passage of rites
To a secret soul
A crossing path, it was.
If he were a breathing book,
I only see its spine on a wooden cot
At the edge of a rustic bedroom
Facing her courtyard, drenched in moonlight
In a dream that was once a lonely nightmare.
I, the seed of her soul, the branch of her trees, her prayer to be finished
Meet the friend of that book yet to be inked
After many turns of the Earth around the sun.
Jeweled book covers in burgundy velvet
Whisper soft poetry
Like muted statues on a dusty shelf.
The dancer – his friend – now moves his fingers
Across the silent keys of a piano.
And so do I, through pages,
Toned with famous poems
Among many shelves.
But somewhere, her whispers pierce sharper than silence.
See, the bars around the world have sounds of glasses
But very few fragments of peace.
If wine were a dance
Every soul would take a sip – even my Source – for harmony.
So, she took that one step that one night
Towards that one young, living soul in a passage of rite.
And here we are!
After many revolutions of the sun
In a sun-struck library
Sculpt a rumba walk from a poem we just read.
She is the poem in us all, dancing
New and old, fast and slow
From library to ballroom
Beyond the leaves, waiting to be written on.
Again, and again.
And again.
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