to twirl a banded hoop
around our hips, never
learned to shake the belly
of the dance; or never coaxed
a rain of templed silences
from open lips of bells.
What brassy notes winds croon,
the blossoms know already—
We lean our heads
against the rain; eventually,
our colors stain the pavement.
[LAG-other-response date=”04 16 2014″ url=”https://www.vianegativa.us/2014/04/makeshift/” title=”Via Negativa: Makeshift”]