A Sudden Urge to Dance
You eyes look across, past the comfortable circle
of laughing friends, all happily talking at once,
their plates half empty, their wine glasses half full,
their talk full of art and music and hope and habit.
You look past the table, past the warm oak paneling
through the broad glass windows
and into the garden
to the man waltzing in the rain.
What madness makes a man dance so
when the winds of November
whip cold drops of near snow
like icy daggers?
What inner fire warms his eyes,
defies the coming winter
and even in the late autumn mist
shouts joy and passion?
And you wonder,
why is it, that here in the warmth of the teahouse,
safe in the womb of your dinner conversations
and warm mulled wine
you have an urge to step into the falling darkness
and dance in the flowerless garden?
The poem was written remembering a day in a teahouse in Bath, England, where I looked outside in the middle of the day, and saw an old man dancing in the street, as others walked past him, no one paying him a bit of notice. And from that memory, this poem.
The picture was taken on the 4th of July, years ago. You can click on it for a larger view.