Waving his fists
in rhythm,
He hit the
perfect note,Precisely moving his feet,
Impulsively trying to emote.
The sweet whisperings
of music,
The choreography, his creation,The emitting of the right sounds,
that displayed infinite elation.
A hop and skip, to the distance,
Tugging at an invisible
drape,A kneel here, a twist there,
Thus the routine takes shape.
Enthralled with himself,
Oblivious to watching eyes,He was on his way to bliss,
And ready for the reprise.
I could see a young tot playing his own music and being so proud of himself as I read your poem!
ReplyDeleteI could see his proud smile! Wonderful poem.
ReplyDelete