Anna Pavlova
M
Mario, Lucien, Rene Odekerken
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She did not dance-
she became the dance.
A breath wrapped in silk,
a whisper of snow
falling with purpose.
Each step a question,
each gesture a memory
from some other world
where pain is poetry
and motion is truth.
In the arc of her arm
the sorrow of centuries,
in the rise of her foot
a defiance of gravity
and of fate.
They called her Swan-
but she was more:
the silence between notes,
the stillness after thunder,
the echo of a soul
that never touched the ground.
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