twirling, spinning

she’s a music box come alive

flowing, spiraling  

she’s immaculate

skirting across the room

charming the critical audience

her blush-colored skirt

trimming her narrow waist

fits her like a piece of art

hair twisted on the top of her head

no stray hair escaping

ballet slippers

the one tarnished piece

of her ensemble

gliding across the studio canvas

admirers send their congratulations

and judges abrasively rate her performance

she accepts her fate

graciously bowing to scoop

the fuchsia roses littering the tile

at the closing of the production

she has eyes for one

and when hers meets his

the routine drops

the key unwinds

and she lets go of the breath

she was holding in