EYES OF A NEW MORNING   <return to contents

Death Dances on the Doorstep
Death dances on the doorstep
like a strong armed voyeur
of the dark rhythms
who will not let me forget
just how much he danced with me

during the last months of living here.

His movements are of silk,
his steps sure as northern lake ice
in the catacombs of winter.
I watch him dance on this doorstep,
knowing that I danced with him.

The dancer calls me to the doorstep,
to become his partner once again.
I will not step forward.
He holds no attraction.

I am a spectator now.