In the Moonlight-Fantastic
The swoosh-swoosh dress, hips dalliance, smooth hardwood.
He’d like to take her out for a spin, but she’s not letting anyone in.
She can nearly feel the polish under cosseted soles; an angel.
His eyes don’t leave her side; he can dream of milky wings.
The tempo picks her up, lets her go, never drops her; he might.
His intent, palms around her waist, a pick-me-up, a whirlwind.
Without a care, even he won’t dare slide his shoes nextdoor.
She’s breathless, hair like a waterfall, graceful, frenetic.
He wants to put her in a pumpkin shell, make her his wife.
She goes it alone, on tiptoe, hands become rain clouds.
The tempest tightens his heart and abdomen; she’s his.
The knot he feels is quickly untied by her “bye, bye.”
He looks for her in the lot, in the moonlight-fantastic; glass.
Her reflection is best on the ballroom floor; he’s floored.
He can’t touch her fragility, not allowed a whiff of her perfume.
She flies high and higher; he shields his eyes; clouds brighten.
He hears her swoosh-swoosh; at long last, rose-scented petrichor.
He can’t accept her departure; she is the warmth of Summer.
He feels a tap on his shoulder; hopeful; alas, lights turned off.
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