Like petals tossed into a summer breeze,
she writes a line of verse across the floor,
then twirling back, the second line agrees,
and now the drifting petals seem to soar.
I wonder as the poem goes dancing by,
how every move is adding brand new lines.
And as I watch one pretty petal fly
the rhyming and the rhythm intertwines.
But there's one thing I cannot understand--
the way she makes those miracles collide:
the beauty of her poem seems somehow planned,
yet random as the wind the petals ride.
My words can't reach across that great expanse,
so I'll just sit and watch the lady dance.
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