Saprid could not have caught us in better light
     than this—
     in the wild disarray of our dance, as I
  flung you      away,
  whirring round
      and whirling
in stirred air, damp curls
unfurling.
     
 
It was mere
                 moment's abandon—
joy quickened in your throat,
sprung its way up as               bird flight,
light as heart-
         song, and you,
            the axis of my gravity.
 
 
You were five and it was the month of May again,
Our circle yet unbroken by sorrow's centrifuge.
Saprid's tikbalang prancing, still far, faraway.
 
 
 
*For Mary Ann, on her birthday, May 5, 2011