graceful and flowing on whatever shelf-stage you fling yourselves, perpetually arcing, perhaps to strains of Appalachian Spring, the dance Aaron Copeland wrote for his friend, Martha Graham. “Many can write a three-minute song like ’tis a gift to be simple,” Copeland said, “but art extends music like a butterfly makes a garden into a symphony—letting it leap from ear to heart.”

Exuberance lifts off,
lilts around lithe frames
—re-bent—after gravity
proves stronger than alloy.
Un-limbered the flow
sluices through us, where we,
dwarfed by the collective
tarnish, languish, leaden,
as we dance doggedly on.
Playful, we allow
what’s simple to
“be our delight and
turning, turning, we
come ‘round right.”