Lengths of solitude spent in the woods demanded activity to occupy her time. Somehow, movement that reflected the swaying of branches and the sweeping of wind seemed appropriate. She'd spent countless hours circling and weaving, bowing and turning, arms raised to the sun, then bent low toward the earth beneath. Emotion rarely expressed otherwise spilled over into spinning steps that were at once anguished in their loveliness and poignant in their perfection.
No one knew of her dancing. At least, she hoped not. For how could she bear for others to know of her turmoil, revealed alone in her dancing?
No comments:
Post a Comment