Music starts to the maestro’s baton,
Graceful hands like a flower unfurl,
Her eyes and chin roam high above,
On her toes, with her mind in a twirl.
Notes from Swan Lake greet her,
Fettered in a grotto corner space,
But memories slip out her castle,
Showing surfeit of skill and grace.
More beautiful now than ever before,
As admirers watch in awe,
Revitalized, lovely, masterful movements,
Ballet memories from Marta to all.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 