The Poetry of Dance and Hair and Hands

Of course, for Izanor Lyn Marzo Javier

There is dance in the darkness and lightness of these waving, floating strands.
As if hands, the dance flicks the light reflecting the Ilocos afternoon in the gloss of your hair
blown by this December wind. My hand turns into a mere spectator wanting to join
this movement of strands and eyes and hands----touch the dancer, join this dance----
but all this Poetry and Dance continue, not minding the stares of my hands
as we pass by the open fields of Nadsaag. Flowers bow and grasses sway
by the side of the road as the music of the tricycle continues to rock us and hum
carrying us back to your home. The sky is as red as curtains
falling to close the day in a while, and I remain as a mere hand,
wanting to join your hair in its poetry and dance.