There is a spot in Boulevard Park famous
in the annals of American Modern Dance.
An overlook where Isadora Duncan would
mimic the movement of ripple and wave—
her sleek arms outstretched as sculpture
face lifted to a sky of purple gently
dropping its curtain on the vanishing day.
Every eventide like clockwork
passersby would see Isadora there—
her strong, lissome body silhouetted
against the amber flare glistening
on the swell and curl of the tide.
“What choreography of spirit!”
the people would remark, as the dancer
shaped her body into a hallowed pose.
Ordinary in other surroundings,
they became in these moments
beholders of liberation, honored guests.
Mesmerized by such grace, such gravitas,
they watched in awe the unfurling of her final dance
when the sheerbright scarf loosened from her neck
and swirled up into the wind
untangling amidst stars.
A lyric in motion, singing.