Dancing at Old Threshers'
Tangerine sunset floats low on the horizon.
The moon is orbiting around your hat.
I dance with you between rows
of early September corn,
your Amish beard a field of uncut hay.
I haven't memorized the map
of the constellations, but your eyes
are burning. The landscape of your muscles
ripples under your white muslin shirt.
You turn me two hands round
as the Great Bear rises in the sky
above your left shoulder.
There's a secret beneath my gingham apron,
a shower of falling stars
as we dance around the fire
kicking up the ground made hard
by late summer rain.
We orbit around the shapes
of our forefathers' stories —
a galaxy of seasons changing,
the stars a blur,
woodsmoke and wisdom whirling.
As we circle around each other,
the bear wakes up from his dreaming,
hears the tinny music
of hammered dulcimer floating south.
He pulls corn out of the husks
and you open your mouth.
The moon cracks like a pumpkin.
The sparks brush your skin
like a woman with turquoise beads,
tan muscular arms
and the secrets of your shoulders.
I am the goose shadow dreaming
of the day the universe began,
singing the music of the next creation.
— Diane Frank
