I see her, a fine line
cascading the settee robed,
her taut outline like a bow
or maybe an arrow arcing
en pointe in midair

She is a slow projectile
running toward me – suddenly she jumps

Overhead all in a tumble
of sorts till she falls
to the ground once again
running just prior to breaking
into dance and then pieces

Jigsaws, pirouettes,
silhouettes curl their shadows
upon lacy pulled curtains
ceiling to floor, wall to wall
day after day, and year to year

To be timeless – she said –
one needs to step aside
so she did

Some people trust falling backwards
being caught by others around,
but I never will

Chagall 2018