I can’t remember the last time I twirled,
hair flying and arms flaying as I went round
and round until the world began to blur.
Somehow I grew up,
so I sit in the grass
fearing it might stain
my over-worried outfit. I listen to the music
but the man with the scarfs seems to feel it in an
unfiltered way that I haven’t since childhood.
Untamed white hair
and tie-dye tunic
billowing as he whirls.
His haphazard dancing calls to a few children
so he pulls out scarf after scarf like a circus clown,
handing them out to his motley crew who are
jumping and spinning
in a rainbow haze
to the sound of the banjo.
This unbridled spectacle of play is childish
and messy. It’s wildly undignified, which makes
the grass dancers all the more alive and free.
Filed under: Poetry
