By Lucille Hamilton
Dancing
I'm dancing around in my head,
and, yes,
I can see the dust motes dancing, too,
to their own rhythm
in the shaft of summer's light
that slants down from the open window.
Why not dance?
Ultimately,
the dust will always win;
just give in on those days
when the urge to dance overtakes you:
Dust can always wait.
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No, I'm not timid,
but I don't know how courageous I am
or will be
when the time comes.
I think this is true of everyone,
courage still bearing the whiff
of a Victorian commodity
being brought forward
as an example of how to behave
in these post-atomic years
of terror and horrific hunt-and-seek drones.
It's something I don't want to rehearse;
there are enough professions already doing so.
How are we to raise our children,
given that the old stories are too shallow to be guides?
What are we to do with the anger and fear
that is consuming our civilizations, our world?
How can we walk
in integrity,
in peace,
except
by
doing so?
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