My wife and I are taking dance lessons. While we are having quite a bit of fun, we are not dancers. Well, I’m not. I have the grace of a blind, intoxicated buffalo.
My inability to move gracefully has enabled me to better appreciate the poetry of movement, that grace that surrounds me in the wind: a leaf falling from its tree, a bird darting through a shadow, an errant piece of litter that takes wing as a butterfly. Movement, grace…there’s a poem. I’ll search for it tomorrow. It’s time for this dancer to sleep. Those lessons are wearing me out!! Good night.