he dreams them
as he scrapes the floors
good wood scents, the turpentine
surround, on air of sunlit
grandeur brushing shadow
across his weathered face

he hums a waltz timed
to his strokes, music
bursts through gilded doors
windows open on the black
of night

dancing slippers guided
by dress boots polished
to a striking gleam will
glide smoothly across his floor

chandeliers mock the stars
bright crystal flames
silks and satins whisper
ceremonial swords softly rattle
a whirling kaleidoscope, a dream.

for the dance © 2002 Patricia Cresswell