dancing without having learned

On days worn dull,

it is in quiet rooms I remember

how I used to dance with second-hand tambourines

on flowery quilts

wearing a girl's slip of satin & lace.

Or was the one seen twirling

across summer lawns of public spaces,

as a brass band played through dusky evenings,

beneath gazebos—that from a distance

were re-imagined as musical carousels

capable of spinning up into the night sky,

to drift as singing satellites among the stars.

In a house where instruments were in need of repair—

the untuned violin, the upright without certain keys,

the stringless folk guitar of a long lost friend—

tucked forgotten in corners and cases,

eventually finding their fates

along with unloved books and toys

and outgrown dresses.

But the music was always there,

and remained,

dancing

without ever having learned.