The Dancer Waking

The dancer in me
was happy this morning
pulling on my costume—
the one that flashes and sparkles
the morning’s newest light on the surface
of Silver Lake or possibly the Sugar River,
flowing over pebbles made smooth,
tumbling past rocks and stones
stacked by ice and rushing snow melt,
cast off by the accumulation of thunderstorm
electric with summer, mellowed on golden days
in October and copper November.

My heart is most pleased in this body
when I honor movement
of skirts swirling around my ankles,
old settlers in bonnets
tending to the earth on the prairie,
cutting each step with the swish of fabric
chosen not just for the utility of the cloth,
but for the delicate flowers
and comfort each brush against strong legs might bring—
in work and in celebration
of promenades holding the head high
and circling, smiling with partners
who look adoringly
into the face.

Jaguar, Mother of the West,
queen of all that protects me,
let me know love beyond birth and death,
sink your teeth into the throat of these enemies
of fear and doubt.
Let me see clearly and smell the earth as she wakes
under the pads of my lover’s feet.
Let us embrace and move as if one body—
fibers of light connecting sinew and bone
and the flesh, warm with that white rose of pure understanding—
awake every holy junction in our core
with your sweet mother breath.
Wrap a shawl around my shoulders
and I will bow my head in this fresh May morning
and I will be grateful for your abundant loving kindness
in every blessed step forward