DANCING PRINCESSES

By James-Clifton Spires (copyright 2000)

"Stand Still," I shout, against my will,

as the rambling rose in her cotton clothes

walks down Main Street,

freshly gowned in a new clinging frock,

her body refusing the still, pastel prison,

moving with ripples of flesh

and heat beneath the thin fabric.

The wind which caresses the material against her skin

calls out to old men like me in our passing cars,

our front steps, our cigarettes

burning to for-a-moment forgotten ashes

as we watch this dancer

pour down the street

in streams of strolling rhythms all her own.

"Do you like my dress?" she says,

without words, knowing the answer:

"Oh, yes! We love it all!"

Women shimmer

in spring and summer dresses,

their exposed natural shoulders most beautiful

when reflecting, in their size-14 fleshiness,

sweaty shadows of delight

in their collar bones underneath spaghetti straps,

in their breath, in their wide smiling mouths

uplifted to catch the possibly

of humidity in the air, suddenly, hopefully

becoming  thunderous rain.

Grown women --- Janes and Marilyns ---

in sun dresses of flowing light,

laughing like unformed twiggy school girls

pretending to be mature,

Like the treasured waifs flat-walking on their runways

in the latest lightweight fashions

hanging limp on human coat hangers,

doing a dance without life.

No, the treasures are the women,

the soft, rounded children of substance

who know best how to dance in the spring.

Their free exposure of just enough of their scenic routes,

their blossom-bursting child-like souls,

spinning, flowing, sending sauce over heir shoulders,

soft self-love that invites us all

to shiver at their loveliness,

to marvel at their thick completeness,

that astounds the observer

at the beauty which dances

in the first week of spring.