Fresh Air (from a past life)

I noticed her
as her walk dimmed the rest of the world.
Her aura or air or God gene
Pressed my sights onto her.
The ‘it’ I couldn’t make words of
led my overworked mind into focus for once.
‘Twas intrigue, at least, that jerked my attention.

She wasn't of flash or fête
Yet daunting in attack
Her rhythm waxed poetic from shoulder to hip
Each stride another subtle step toward my defeat
So fluid, making winds shape visions
from each utterance that passed her pearly gates.

Grace, nonchalance
bundled tight in a moment
to be imprinted on her earth and mine
for as long as consciousness serves me.

I wonder, Sweet Grace,
God's gift to man present,
By chance, do you Dance?

LOVE  L A C E #3