She bends her bones to fling them high,
a gawky graceful, nearly flawless dance,
but the stodgy Envies snicker why
slipper pinches will one day wince a cry
against the hour she donned them just to dance,
she bends her bones to fling them high.
Spare no worry on the gargling sigh
of those old crones, stretching livid pants,
these stodgy Envies snickering “why
should this wracking fledgling fly”
when she has a whole life of chance
to bend bones and fling them high.
Face to face, they would not (Never!) deny
the ungainly grace of her keen stance,
these stodgy Envies snickering “why,”
too safe to know: no gosling ever graced a sky
without an ardent, battering, rising dance.
And so despite stodgy Envies snickering “why,”
she bends her bones to fling them high.
Posted in response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt bird. This poem first appeared under a different title in Dazed Part of Light.
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