The Waltz

            And time passes—
            these measured steps,
            sway of the waltz
            gently tugging
            between then and there—
            pulling ever back,
            ever forward—
            sound of the engine,
            the flying machine
            overhead,
            echoes
            from another time,
            not so distant
            the ones in the faded photograph,
            within myself,
            pushing me
            on,
            and again—
            reeling
            from the sway of the waltz,
            reeling me back—
            the present,
            ever fleeting—
            caught
            between
            somewhere
            forgotten
            and somewhere
            forgotten not yet,
            somewhere
            between
            ghosts
            of myself
            before
            and before,
            balanced
            on the thread
            running through me,
            running
            ever so slowly
            then,
            ever so quickly
            there—
            the moving images,
            the voices calling
            down the dusty street…
            Across the dance floor,
            the waltz
            rises—
            I am not quite
            invisible—
            some see
            I do not belong—
            neither here nor there,
            spread too far
            across time,
            knowing
            full well
            there are no more waltzes—
            they are no more—
            and yet—
            there will always be waltzes,
            because time passes
            and I
            with it—
            time passes
            with the sway of the waltz,
            and I
            with it,
            so that they
            shall never die—