She Could Dance This World

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She was the one who danced through the days. She was the one who took the possibilities of that day and spread them out around her world. She could take the fresh spring air with all its promise of growth and fecundity into her hands. Then she’d weave a world of growing around her shifting feet as they danced across this possible world. She gave the day its dawn, its morning and its evening. She then slow danced the blanket of the night across the tired day, ready to begin again.

She could dance the birds into song to give her a tune for dancing. She could dance the rain against the dry ground to bring the flowers dancing out from the ground. All swaying with her in the breeze as the clouds took their stately progress across the skies looking down on her.

She could dance the stars in their progress across the night, take the moon in her arms and dance until dawn.

Like the river flowing and like the tides and seasons turning, she never grew tired of movement. Even in the slow, short days of winter, she could still dance the snows across the land. She could swirl like the howling winds as the gales blew and the bare trees danced to keep warm.

She could dance like the flames in our fires as we gathered around to see her dance this world into being for us. We knew that without her, there would be no dance, and with no dance, there would be no world.

The world grew older and her dances grew slower. We knew she was immortal, unlike us who lived, grew and died in the days of her dances. We wondered if it was our fault for not showing our appreciation for all her dances, nor how she danced our word into being each day.

We offered her all the gifts we could gather from the world she made for us. Still the dances grew slower; still the winters grew longer, still the cold winds danced through our lives. More and more our own dances halted as we made our slow ritual way to the burial mounds where so many danced no more.

Then, one mid-winter day we awoke to find she had gone, leaving us with the cold and the dark and no more dances. So now we sit here watching the slow dancing flames of our fires, wondering if spring can ever come again, now there is no-one here to dance it into life for us.

 

Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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