She sways, trancelike,
aroung the crowded palace floor.
Despite age, her hips move easily
through steps well-practiced down her years.
Waltzing in a moonglow satin gown
her broadness compounds joy,
spins pink-sugar dreams,
blows particolored bubbles high
toward the ancient frescoed ceiling.
She loses herself in the lilting beat
delights her feet with the feel of the floor,
the spring of velvet slippers against silk
smooth boards, her toes hum verve into the ground.
The orchestra, catches her whim,
plays more blithely than before.
She's the conductor's muse.
His wand-filled fingers shoot purple
yearning through the night, amplifying notes,
ignore those sideline savants,
aghast at such clowning,
grumbling that the steps are outdated.
They dance only the tango now, all that's permitted.
The fool should be ashamed.
...by Elizabeth I. Riseden