Ah, the beauty of the pose,
that favored spot, once attained,
never to let go
like the 19th century ballerina poised
on the toe hold, so demure, so sweet,
we play our ploys and then,
repeat, repeat, repeat,
So delicately balanced,
each moment carried,
like the goose’s first egg,
cradled in our hands,
we tiptoe into the kitchen,
worshipping time’s fragile skin,
hoping it won’t shatter
before someone shouts,
“Bravo!”
