fragile, the strands that you pull
out of my hands and dance, carefree
as if all you needed was this spring
but I am reduced to a sigh that
breaks free, from my chest but I
fall down again and sigh again
I really don’t want to cry again
For the evening, quieter than a sob
pours in through the dirty window
yellow, and mellow, and low again
I think the world’s getting slow again
when fingertips feel the soft heart beat
I dread we are going to die again…
Story Of The Footloose 
Gentle yet poignant; lingers after the last word. đŸ™‚
for you, Diana. maybe a fulfilling verse of the Wandering Armadillo shall respond…
soft, an ending, open to something more-a moment of wonder in time.
open to the rest of poetry and magic, dear angel in the dust.