The Dame Of Copenhagen Poem by Carson Tidwell

Ghost like; she dances; an ol' ballet. Each movement
measured, like notes written by Bach. The slow twirl
of her French braid unraveling, reflects above the mirror
of a violet hughed lake. Locked away under blue veils
of ice. With speed, she spins among ashen petals
of a nimbus. Gliding along, spurred, she snaps;
an arm flinging beads of sweat. Her breath composes
its own cloud. Like the white hibiscus of spring; her dress blooms.