Life moves like a dancer, lithely wrapping
herself around opportunity with
the fluid grace of flowing time. Beckoning
and teasing in ways as old
as the cold void between the
pulsing heat of stars.
She stirs the hunger that
draws things out of hiding;
squeezing dreams
out of possibility. Anticipation
bred of implication.
Beauty in unanticipated
flashes, in the light
of darkened places.
I've always had a penchant for strippers
so to speak.
Life is like that. I've always
been a bit bemused by
people who are scared
to look at the beauty in life
that is clearly there to be seen
and drink it in.
They look
but with furtive glances. Stares
purposefully averted, as from
a beautiful book on a shelf, never
opened for fear of wrinkling its pages.
A compass, fixed anxiously
on the mundane. Fearful
of leaving the comfort
of the harbor – not knowing
what now lies ahead –
for fear of a joy
from which they cannot
withdraw. A joy that may
disturb the calm surface of
their small pond.
Fear that they may have to carry
some new vision, alone. That they
may stumble under the
weight of that load.
Better to not see.
So much to fear.
And all the while
life beckons and whirls, flashing
mysteries to be plumbed; delights
to be seen; wonders to
be unfolded with your fingers
like the fresh petals of the
first bloom in spring.
A Penchant for Strippers by Michael Graves | Ecency
