Prima Ballerina Poem by Lois Read

I was moved today to paint the woods
dormant still, but showing signs
of waking in the April sun.

But I could not decide the color
of last year's leaves, bright and brittle
blanketing balck humus

beneath bare trees, cradling
incipient life, could not quite
pin it down, choose a hue

umber, ochre, raw sienna,
colors of the winter woods
for it would not stay still, but

shimmered as though dancing
anticipating
the burgeoning of life.

So I thought instead to try a poem
hoping that words might capture
the in-breath of the moment

when the Mother stretches
wakes up all her parts
ties on her satin toe shoes

puts on her special tutu
stretches, flexes, readies herself
for the Gran Jete into spring.