The Tired Dancer

The tired dancer
resting,
took up her brush
and created a choreography
in paint and collage
where her free-moving spirit
could meander at will
through clovered valleys
and stormy hillsides,
adding rythmic greys and purples
and wisps of pastel collage
to reflect her ever-changing moods.

Gradually this ephemeral mindscape
evolved, becoming a more
permanent monument
to her inner self,
extending far beyond
the measured rectangle.

Later the uninitiated came to look,
excited yet secretly
bewildered by the strange
mystical landscape
daily sprouting appendages
like a blossoming tree.
And when a pink-hued tissue
occasionally disengaged itself,
falling from the canvas
like a faded rose petal,
their amazement was complete.

Yet as the praise poured forth
and they clamoured for more
and bigger and better,
she found herself becoming
spiritually and physically trapped
within her own proliferating creation
until, like Alice,
she could not find the door.

The tired painter,
now resting behind closed doors,
sheds her primadonna mask
and begins to plan her next step.

She notices with surprise
that her feet are automatically
in the dancer's first position.