Life is like some dance

It’s true.
We change our steps, our footwork,
to keep pace with our partner.
Sometimes it’s a two-step, sometimes a waltz.
And when life decides, with or without warning,
to shift to a frenzied, unrelenting watusi,
he doesn’t wait around for you to take dancing lessons
or straighten your clothes,
but just flails and flings his arms about,
expecting you to follow his lead.
For life is the dance. And the partner.
And you follow as best you can, barely remembering to breathe,
hoping to

Inhale more brain

when you do breathe,
as if having more would help you get through this dance.
Then,
(and only because every tune has an eventual end),
the last refrain comes around,
and the musical arc continues its descent,
not because you learned the dance well,
or convinced anyone you truly knew the steps,
not because you were lovely in aspect,
or personified any sort of poetry in motion,
but because there is an end
to all things,
a blissful stopping.

The flailing stops, the flinging stops,
you breathe again.

But you feel the rhythms
long after the music has ended
because now the song is built in to your head.
You feel your feet dancing the dance of the dance floor
even when they are supposedly still,
because when all is said and done,

Life is like some dance

and you were meant to live it
in all its messy, disheveled glory.
Grateful for arms that can flail
and feet that can move,
glad to be asked.

But before the next tune starts,
please,

Long sleep befriend me

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…oops. Fell asleep on the z.
.

Thanks to the denizens of 808. Thanks for the fellowship, the hot cider, the unexpectedly good hot dog over an open fire, the pumpkin carving and Sgt. York. And for the fun little discoveries on your refrigerator. SoMuchLove.

~ Rachel