She is not She
As I totter about inch by inch
making a somewhat drama and story out of it
by way of keeping myself going
(in hope and faith)
dropping crutches, unable to reach things, hold things, pick them up,
counting the minutes so slow,
all I need do is remember, envisage this armless ballerina virtuoso
indelibly printed in mind and heart;
her every tear, daily struggle,
the faith and love in getting up from every fall and failure
on and on, moment by thankless moment,
construing a future perfection
of performance and expertise
out of her pain, not knowing and staying powers
until, like the butterfly - she soars:
exquisite in purest manifestation
of the glory of joy and love.
For us to behold with awe
and know indeed
she is not she
but a portent and precursor of the luminous human.
beckoning, reminding, assuring
that is the Beauty Way.
Jan ‘23