She dances to twist the clouds of aether,
to tie the ribbons of creation,
looping and swirling.
She paints the moon with silver thread,
flaring from her head,
her skirt a crimson undulation,
will birth planets and stars,
in its unraveling.
She is the dancer,
dashing this way and that,
kinking the ribbons in mid flow,
to achieve the new angles of life.
But her tempo is slowing,
and she feels the weight,
of billions of years,
on the balls of her stilettoed feet.
When she stops for a drink,
or to wend her weary way home –
the motion and energy of life,
will drift after her,
in a slowly dying echo of the dance.
