Dancing, black silhouette behind a snow-soaked pane
A tree or a sprite, maybe,
It’s hard to make out through her wings–
like mossy green growths from her chair–
brushing the walls in narrow halls,
trailing her scent of clove and citrus
with traces of glitter
when she sings, the trees bend in half
and my heart swells against my ribs
until we’re all pleasantly uncomfortable,
inside and out
For a moment I remember the first time
I heard Tori Amos while reading up on time travel
and I feel myself astral projecting
beyond the dark strings and siren notes
No one notices me flying before I catch myself
staring at the shadow outside, still dancing
11-11-19
Gretchen Pleuss 
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