A Poem for August

The Dancer
Surrounded by sparkles and glitter,
she would turn in time
to the tune of Eidelweiss or Brahms;
routinely checking her reflection,
her body of perfection,
flowing hair,
the grace of a fairy,
her forever-smile
and the dress that swirled with her.

If ever given a box-shaped gift,
I would rip off its wrappings,
aching to own her,
trust her with my treasures
and watch her spin to the song
which I would wind
to watch her again, and again –
yet all I could do was covet and long.

Maria Stephenson

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