My mother. Never an ordinary story.
Said a rain dance for Buddha began this journey. Whatever it actually was,
I am here.
What was I to be? It did not matter then.
She fouetté(d) and jeté(d) — forty-two weeks.
Created from dance, by the dancer, the performer, the spotlight, the stage, I was finally able to see the star of my show.
Like her, I was, but not completely. I created myself in time; however, she is always there.
It was a decent trip.
The feeling of relief was late but at least it came.
With it came dance. My heart was full. I smiled. I finally took it all in.
Then I danced.
It was a problem. Dancing for attention. For glares. You stormed out. Spoke not another word until the morning.
Secure, are you not? Chant it a little louder so we can all hear. Security. Security. Security.
Your actions, misread.
I learned a lot. But this took far too long.
The one making the most judgement
knew the very least
I am she and I am fire and I am wind and rain and lightening and
you are none of these things.