Time curves your spine, grey and stiff jointed.
Holding two stout companions you, promenade,
despite thickening ankles.
But Spring sunlight finds your shoulders and
wraps them in silver. And suddenly it is obvious,
lithe form swaying in a skyblue gown,
a slow dance with a responsive partner.
Lips dewy, welling with some deepfelt song,
a flush of emerald flashing across the crowd.
Even now you wear a quiet smile.

Entry for the Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball

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