The Dancer

So quickly the hands of time spin around
like the lone dancer twirling violently on a granite ground.
A dancer creating visions like the impressionists.
But to me, the watcher, the uncharted desert of desire, the captivist,
I understand this dance like a river.

A river with the gentle ebb and flow through smooth and smoothing stones,
carrying life from hidden bends and forests to the delta filled with holy bones.
The quiet bubbling on the shallow rapids, and the rushing water over falls,
the sound of rain from the waving trees, the rubbing away of the riverbed's walls.

I listen.
I listen until my eyes can see. See the sounds and breath of the dancer.

This river so fixed and so dependent upon
The breath of the air,
The breath of the sun,
The breath of the earth.

So seemingly boundless within itself, yet so plainly controlled by the spinning dancer.
The wind of his movements.
The colors in his eyes.
His voice from the ground.

Only a stones throw from the rushing waters, my scarred feet are on an ancient dry lair,
My lips chapped by the breath of the sun, the breath of the earth, and the breath of the air.
And there is a thirst in my soul.

I hear the river call, the dancer bids me to dive.
To abandon sand, cage and floor, to the river of unknown direction, unknown tide.

I have no idea where the river takes me, but I know the Dancer will be there.