The Dance

My tiny daughter was
placed in my arms and I danced.
She had soft dark hair which I carressed
to the steps of the dance.
I brought her home and we danced
through the house,
in the garden, on the street,
following the Lord of the Dance.
We whirled and twirled
and circled about moving close and far
and closer again.

She placed her first tiny
daughter in my arms and we danced.
She had dark velvet hair and
I stroked her head to the steps of the dance.
We danced to the beat of her music,
inside and out, on swing, on sand and sea,
our steps in mysterious harmony.

Tonight, this grandchild
cuddles close and we dance.
With my wig removed, her strong young fingers
dance on my bald head -
a massage to help my hair to grow.
She squeals out her surprise:
"Grandma, there's new hair
growing all over your head!
It's very, very soft!"
My daughter joins and deftly cuts old
straggly strands and tenderly shapes
my quarter-inch hair.
"It's so soft, Mom!
It's dark and white and maybe curly too!"

This dance tonight is a wondrous thing.
We whirl and twirl and come full circle.
For now my head with newborn fuzz
is loved and admired as theirs once was.

A. Fast-Vlaar
(from The Valley of Cancer)