Write your poem — she told me –
not about a snow storm
but rather a snow flake.
That is how she came to me,
not with blizz and bluster,
fizz and fluster, but soft
and Seleney, floaty, flirty,
melt on my shirty,
crystallined, one of a kind.
Archive for dance
Snowflake
Middle Age
Lately I find myself slightly out of step,
like a man trying to catch up
to a scrap of paper
on a windy day.
Around me twirl the dancers in perfect time,
shoes shiny and stomping out
their happy tunes,
a blur.
I stand in the middle
unable to focus.
Is that why it’s called
middle age?
