Holy Day

This moment is a sacred place and
all of time an holy day:
soft strokes of marking dust
upon sketch book page
of infinite plane.

This moment though is just a place and
a sliver of time within an holy day
passed in any way is sublime
or challenging as a blank stare
from sketch book page.
                                                   
Scrawl me something grand
with bored,passionate or restless hand:
Pavati divine, in her prime
at the zenith, (that perfect foot!),
exacting, nautch with every step
a monumental execution.

Vaguely play with that expanse
of page and intimate, but obscurely,
the dancer's body
its need to move
capture, with a stroke,
every hesitation
every raw beginning.

Sketch me a still movement
as upon a bubble surface
its wonderful roil impossible
without glycerin slime
and a defining emptiness
surrounded by closed shape
to trap and stretch across
to be freed when wind fills
and pulls it away.
As upon a bubble surface
the dance is most free                  
when self perfected into a sphere.
It then becomes nautical
in the void
sailing upon air,
sailing upon nothing but air.
   
Yea such a moment is a sacred place
within an eternal Holy Day.