Panagiota Romios Poet Free verse

The Dance of Time

a little girl, learns to walk.
then at weddings,Daddy has
her on top of his shoes
she looks up at him
she is only four
as she moves with him
across the dance floor

as she grows she knows
she will always be a dancer
she is only seven now
and dance,to her is heaven
and it will be as she ages
ballet, tap and ethnic
and belly dancing, too

time slows her movements
her feet and limbs grow stiff
and yet her dancer heart
still moves with every beat
it is her heart's life's blood
her truly fondest desire
is to dance again and never tire

October 6, 2019

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Anne-Lise Andresen October 7, 2019 at 3:06 AM - The dance will always be in her heart, a wonderful poem Panagiota :) - hugs // Anne-Lise :) Panagiota Romios October 7, 2019 at 7:03 AM Always and always.. Gracias, just me. xxxx

Ann Gilmour October 7, 2019 at 12:49 AM Ooooh Panagiota this is utterly divine as your words dance across the page. So evocative and full of passion my friend and in the dancers mind she is still able to dance as she did in her youth - exquisite imagery - I love it and a FAV for me. With kindest thoughts Ann xx Panagiota Romios October 7, 2019 at 7:01 AM Hello, Ann! Nice to hear from you. How divinely sweet To make this a FAV. My words "dance across the page"~ so poetic. Thank you, love..just me..xxxx

Arturo Michael October 6, 2019 at 4:47 PM The dancer....one way or the other she will dance...Nice one Panagiota Romios October 6, 2019 at 6:53 PM Arturo! Right on, brother. Dance is like the wind. It's something magical in it. Where does it come from and why is it so enchanting? It's a powerful force yet at times soothing and undulating, Panagiota. oxox

Line Gauthier October 6, 2019 at 2:56 PM What a lovely poem, Panagiota. Panagiota Romios October 6, 2019 at 3:10 PM Thanks, Line. I tried to keep this as simple and light as I could. Have a joyous day...PR

Silent One October 6, 2019 at 2:55 PM Oh this iS sad not being able to do something we love.. Panagiota Romios October 6, 2019 at 3:07 PM There are many poets here who cannot do what they love. I call this poignant. How many can still jump rope, climb a tree or play Baseball or go bowling? PR