My legs, though functional, are to a dancer what tone deaf ears are to a crooner.
My feet, though sensitive, are a dance floor’s disgrace.
While my bones and joints cannot syncopate with metronome and rhythm,
Whirling dervishes – words – assemble in the hall of my mind.
I arrange them, I check them for rhythm,
I test how well they work together and apart,
I’m a choreographer of words.
You cannot see them couple and group with each and one another.
It’s a dance so special to me and so mundane to you, as only I see it.
What a dancer does with the pulsing rhythm in her limbs,
I do with the living words in my mind.
We’re both fine artists differing in our medium of expression.