Dance is like thought

We cannot see a beauty but feel its cold
On these bones, scrunching dead leaves,

Incorporating live smells of bird chicks
White flowers with faces down , feet up.

We are blind among groups of dancers
But we claw an air with them gracefully.

Our fingers around the waists are birds
Taking off, to  constantly changing sky.

(remembering Helen Keller : Dance is like thought)

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