(Poem by Wendy Howe )

A branch kicks high
extending the arch
of a dancer' s foot to the moon.

The shadow's denier
is sheer pine
flirting with the wind, tempting
Degas to paint.

Erratic timing
streaks my window
and I untie one of its long seconds.

Impulse dangles, the robe falls
into its glittering swirl
and I begin dancing ---

as my lamplight
floods the curtain's pale
modesty after eight.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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Nu à la lumière de la lampe

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