Hesitation Waltz by Wendy McVicker

All the world wilts
at mid–day, swoons
into the splayed

fragrance of iris, hot
sand–haunted scents
of dry grass—

wobbles,
stills,
already the air

heavy as old
lace, laden
with dust.

That mirror, leaning
in the attic, shape-shifting
as water, ghosts

drifting in its silvery
depths. Clouds,
whispers.

Raise your arms,
enter the darkness
that is this garment

slipping
over your head, breathe
powder and soot, look

into the shadows
of the glass—
your grandmother

standing there
in bare feet, gazing
into your eyes

across a century
of exile, and regret,
long avenues resonating

with departures—
never dreaming
of you, here

in early spring, opening
your arms and sliding
into a waltz on the crooked

boards, your sudden smile
as her skirt brushes
your ankles, whispers

on your skin—
and pollen
brushing the windowpanes

with gold

About the author: Wendy McVicker lives and writes in the beautiful green hills of Athens, Ohio. In her poetry, she seeks "to honor memory and the slow, deep process of knowing..."  read more.

Copyright © 2007 by Wendy McVicker. This poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author's express written permission.