Dancing in the Sun
The sun pours molten gold
across the open field,
thick as honey, sweet as forgiveness.
Bare feet kiss the warm earth,
kicking sparks of dust and green.
Her yellow dress flares open
a second sun spinning round her thighs.
No music leads her,
only wind through tall grass
and the bright gossip of birds.
Still her body answers,
arms wide, claiming the sky.
She twirls,
and her shadow twirls wilder,
long and dark and utterly free,
mimicking every leap, every reckless joy.
Heat kisses her skin
collarbone, eyelids, the soft webs between fingers
until she glows from within,
a living lantern of light and laughter.
Hair whips like flame around her face.
Breath rises sharp and sweet.
For this bright, burning moment
there is no yesterday,
no tomorrow
only the drum of bare feet,
the rush of blood,
and the sun pouring love
onto every inch she offers.
She is not dancing for eyes.
She is the dance.
She is motion made golden,
a heart too full to stand still.
And the sun,
delighted,
kisses her back.
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