Forest Dance
The sycamore is dressed for evening.
Her emerald fruits like drop earrings
toss in the breeze, her leaves flash
in all directions like green sequins.
No one is watching. A curtsy
seems only fitting.
I mimic her dancer’s arms
and strathspey past,
meet a honeylocust in my corner
bearded with rough lenticels.
Seedpods rustle like tassels
or bells at his sides. We set and cast.
I think of my new dance class
off Hickory Street,
how each time Jane and I
pass right shoulders, she looks up
smiling as though meeting me
for the very first time.
How kind, I think, stumbling
through my steps the whole way
and trying to find myself
in the right place at the right time.
Our dances are named for bluebells
and willows, and I think why not?
Today, I greet each tree this way,
reciting their names as I go.
Aza Pace’s poems appear or are forthcoming in The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, Tupelo Quarterly, Crazyhorse, New Ohio Review, Passages North, Mudlark, Bayou, and elsewhere. Read more.