Snow Dance Trio
Posted by JC at February 15th, 2010
(a friend of mine was joking a couple of years ago that she didn’t want to work the next day so she was going to do her “secret tribal snow dance” so she’d have a snow day. Something about the idea caught me, so I wrote something about it and sent it to her (on the fly, no edits). The first was “too dark, I’m in a cheery mood”, the second was “still too dark.” The third was “there we go!”. : )
————————————————-
Tribal Dance
————————————————-
feet bare, she stomps, twice, hard, compressing white
powder into ice; sharpened fragments score
pale skin,
powder tinged red — blood offering
to the Gods of White.
The wind whips, frozen from the northwest, screaming into her hair, a wild mane spinning
as she spins, wild eyes, frantic footsteps still precise, dancing rune-marks
on the thin white canvas:
GROW!
She sings the storm, dances the wind, orders the blizzard forth,
RISE UP!
She commands the drifts, the piles, the white dunes sparkle
beneath hints of pale moonlight
seeping through the clouds
that she has
summoned:
Thunder Snow
————————————————-
On the Landing
————————————————-
She shuns socks, despite the cold.
Her feet, bare, scarce touch the frosty stairs –
wind-like, her passage near invisible, but felt.
At the base of the steely mountain, she peers out,
calling to the iron sky, faint hope growing
as white dust piles
and vision blurs
she shivers, dancing in place, toe
to toe, so long as she can stand;
longing for imprisonment,
searching
for freedom
and with a touch of hand to steel
she celebrates
in fire.
————————————————-
Snow Day Prayer
————————————————-
Across the city, the sky is grey, but hearts
are warm
and hopes shine brighter than any mere winter’s excuse
for a sun.
Across the city, in living rooms, and bedrooms, and basements
the children stand in pajamas
and warm socks
looking out windows
watching the blanket of white grow, sparkling, across town.
No school! No school! A day to play, a day
of freedom, no more classes, no more books, no more…
Across the city, the sky is grey, but hearts
hold hope.
Cigarettes burn, and coffee steams in contrast to snow
blowing ’round.
Across the city, in living rooms, and offices, and coffee shops,
the teachers sit, relaxing
full of smiles,
watching the blanket of white grow, sparkling, across town.
No school! No school! A day of rest, a day
to regain some lost moments, and spare some dirty….
Above the candy store, the sky is grey. A heart
beats fast,
and hope is more than just some passive thing, a fire
that grows.
Above the candy store, pajama clad, no socks, one woman
dances, wild, laughing, smiling the widest smile, one brighter
than any mere winter’s excuse,
her fire
is a directive: so eager, sky to please this beauty
dancing on soft carpeting, seen faintly through grandmother-made
curtains
it brings the children freedom, brings
the teachers rest, brings
itself before her, bowing
for her blessing
and she laughs, while Hakuna Matata plays on;
she never admits to her…
…well, you know.
