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