The Dance by Nancy Schatz Alton
I fold over myself into who I used to be:
if we didn’t like ghosts, we wouldn’t become parents
6, 16, 22, 13, 8: our lives illuminated by those who come after.
It’s a song we keep singing while forcefully dropping the storyline.
I see me back there inside concepts I’m only learning now:
what it takes to be vulnerable enough to be seen by another: ah, love!
Seeing is more work than the eye imagines.
My eye spies your stance: I read it across the room.
We are each other’s fixed point yet separate, unwinding
becoming who we yearn to be apart & together.
Spinning to a pause: a side hug on the way to what’s next.
The angle of our profiles matching, our stories meet & recede.
The African drum carol fills my being with joy.
Can my thrumming beat reach you? We dance apart (yet together): always.