Three dancers under music's orders stand
held by the touch of silence for a moment
posing. Now somewhere the flutes' sound
lifts the enchantment. Easily unbound,
they begin to move like plants and nod slowly,
their three heads like blooms: their tendril hands
describe the shapes of air. The slender feet
on points of strength such as grass has,
gently to divide the strength of stone,
make them like gods miraculously borne:
Sonia, Tania, Katia, svelte deities
who sign to us and whom we may not greet.
Theirs is a craft of quiet,
they are shades of an old time
when you could hear, no riot
intervening, intricate and frail rhyme
and music; men had leisure
to ornament, only for pure pleasure,
their utensils and their life;
to live an hour or make a knife
intent on every jeweled space.
This is why they interlace
their fragile hands and dance their pace
of three before your ordinary face.
Graphic - Julie Curtiss (b.1982)