She cries when she dances
and leaps through the air,
her limbs giving way
to a visible prayer.

Her gossamer wings sail
too close to the sun.
Our hearts melt to witness
her suicide run.

She's achingly beautiful -  
stardust in flight; 
she blesses the audience,
lost in delight.

The gift she bestows:
a rare glimpse of divine.
No one knows how it carries her
far past the line.

Yet the gods won't be mocked
as they feast on the mount;
they exact the last drop,
stem the tide of life's fount.

She dances on, weeping,
and thrills every heart,
gathers worshipers, mourners,
while playing her part.

Yet before her bright flame
yields the floor to the night,
she yearns into meaning,
bears witness to light.

How blessed can a dancer be,
crushed 'neath the weight
of the gift (and the curse-
always found out too late)?

Best to dance than to ponder
such weighty concerns.
Share the gift, spill your tears,
scatter ashes from urns.

Bo Gordy-Stith