Marjorie Buettner

The Dance

The reeds by the lake's edge swell and swirl with the shimmering wind. Such a praiseful dance these reeds make; they rise up and circle as if bowing again and again in one joyful union and their dance makes me in turn bow to them. Their dance makes me want to slow down to lake time, sky time, canoe time. Pulling the oars toward me I pull the earth toward me too, and the heavens and birds overhead. It is true what they say: what is above is below and time slows down to a dreamed-shaped timelessness like a cloud floating in a blue flawless sky. Here time becomes not an enemy but a friend, someone you could confide in, tell secrets to, confess your sins. I enter this core of timelessness and I feel unburdened. This heavy load of being falls from me and I am set free, jumping in and out of this poem as if part gazelle. And the reeds by the lake take up their dance once again and invite me to participate.

summer's end–
pussy willow dust
circling in wind