Jana dances with shadows and light
within the shade of a Sycamore tree.
She pirouettes in early autumn, zephyrs
balloon her skirts, rustle the tall grass.
Wind sings through fallen trees,
holes bored by insects
that transform it into a wood flute.
Cloudless-sky-blue feathers rustle
twixt her tender spinning hands.
Her eyes close to sunlight,
that warm lover who kisses her face.
Light tickles her gently through
leaves that dance with the warm air.
Grandfather’s child she is,
ballerina of the fields, prima donna
of summer winds. His songs of heartache
sing to her. Words of hope caress her heart.
Ancient memories dance within her breast.
Native to beauty is she. Teardrops
of rain fall despite her sun
and she washes in their shower.
Bathes, she does, as her land bathes.
Dances a new-found water dance
and the dried grasses sprout green
once more. She smiles, remembering
his strong, hard hands and gentle touch.
For him, she dances. Ever
Grandfather’s child she is.