Microcosmic Dancing

A while back, in my "I Love the Devil (but not really)" entry, I committed to sharing some of the special experiences of mine that I had compiled into a list. I shared a couple, and then I forgot about all that for a while. But I was reminded of it again when I got to read another of my friend Stephen's poems last month. Hey, I don't know how it works, but you read one, and you've got to write one. I wrote this one a few weeks ago, but decided I might as well post it now. Go easy, this is only the fifth poem I have written in my life that doesn't rhyme. I'm experimenting.

Microcosmic Dancing

He fancied himself a dancer,
though at first he looked more like a buoy, bobbing
only slightly in the water. The thought
made me laugh and jest in his ear as I took
his arm and we shared a dance.

Now mocking my conception of a proper pace,
he teetered sharply back and forth
(a smirking pendulum).
“I don’t want to dance with a metronome”—
I pulled him in.

Time began to swish
more slowly, in that instant
I paused to sense it.
A word blasted in my brain,
a firework: “Microcosmic!”

It was a dance within a dance,
as little people swirling
in a shake of plastic snow,
or dancers in a music box
that’s sounding down,
with trembling fingers at bay--
to eagerly wind it up again.