Pavlovas, flurries of white lace
they smile their fixed bright smiles
up at the sun,
flirting with damp disintegration
or, God forbid,
on a ground I thought too warm
to support even their fragile feet
as they flutter and spin and kick
lightly over a drift of dead leaves.
The cat, suited up in thick black plush
against the deathly cold,
skittish, rejecting their arctic insincere kisses
races for the front door,
opened for him
by my chilled hand;
dodging the wind,
outrunning the charge of dancing crystals
at last resting
covering the dead grass,
making a causeway
for the coming of winter,
piling deep, deep
those laughing ballerinas,
we are here,
ahead of the calendar,
ahead of expectations,
ahead of the solstice moon.
we have won.
Poem copyright 2010 by Faire Lewis. All rights reserved.