by Emily Stewart
There is something about the feeling
Of skin moving:
The concealing and the revealing,
and the proving.
Art with the whole self – that cannot be replicated.
I am intoxicated.
Tendu, fondu as you inhale and exhale
You have now become the story.
Breaking free of this life’s jail
Let your body feel the glory
Jeté to the stars as you glide along the barres
No longer an observer you are
Dance – the heart speaking without words
This moment, alone, is ours
Taking flight like blissful birds
As our feet chase the glowing hours
Reaching
Grasping
For that thing one cannot touch with the hand,
But with the tip of the tongue,
Or the heart,
Of art.
