over her tired shoulder,
she lugs it inside
The dance studio,with it's spider-web windows,
and it's tall mirrors.
She tapes up her toes,then slides on the satin shoes,
ribbons laced up tight.
Rising en pointe islike a weight lifted off her
shoulders. She lets go.
The thin leotardand pale pink tights are like a
weightless second skin.
She stands at the barre,patiently waiting for the
music to begin.
When it does, she letsit fill her, swirling around
and lifting her up.
It helps her tell astory of pain and beauty.
Hard work rewarded.
Her body moves withgrace and poise. Every muscle
is on and alive.
Her focus is anessential if she wants to
Energy shoots outher delicate fingertips.
Precision is key.
She shifts all her weight,from two legs to one and finds
balance from within.
Mustering up herlast bit of strength, she prepares
and takes off moving,
Across the long room,flying up, up, and away.
Then she noiselesslylands, like a silent shadow.
Her feet plant firmly.
Her head dips down asshe takes the final curtsy,
but she won't forget
That moment when shewas soaring above all the
things that hold her down.
-- Juliette Z., 13