For no reason, this morning
I dance through the rooms,
my socks sliding on the wood floors
and I twirl and glide and chacha
as if the house is an empty stage.
I think of my daughter who chassés
and leaps—in toe shoes no less—
and I have none of her finesse,
and yet this morning something in me
says dance, though I woke
feeling broken, though I woke
wearing the great gray cloak of grief.
Who could say where it came from,
the impulse to shimmy, to raise
my arms above my head
and swirl my wrists and
fling back my neck till the grief
is light as gauze? I am grateful
for this mystery, how it saves me,
grateful for this inner beat that says,
dance, time to dance, dear woman,
you have everything to gain
in this moment if you dance.