Yes, I bow to his greatness, yet still I
watch just you, flowing in your feather dress,
mirroring his every move, and I sigh
when he enfolds you, delicate caress
so natural to your ballroom ballet.
You gaze and seem to adore him, then glance
away as you float toward floor, briefest sway
to your curved form, then stop, sensual dance
turned to still photo. You trust his holding
you with single hand completely. He lifts
you. Together you whirl, leap as one, bring
your lovemaking to an end—artist’s gift
to all—stroll in graceful steps to that wall
where you lean, stare with love. Again I fall.
Roger Armbrust
November 25, 2010
