Ballerina In Ball of Snakes

More about Ballerina In Ball of Snakes

She holds the night on a single toe,
a quiet axis in a turning garden.
Hedges breathe in clipped geometry,
fountains listen without speaking.

Around her, a living circle coils—
not threat, not promise,
but motion kneading itself.
Scales catch the low gold light,
each curve a hologram of sound.

The sky keeps its distance,
stars pined in their patient witnesses.
No audience, no applause—
only balance held in ecstatic pause.

Her arm draws a line through darkness,
a measure of where stillness bends.
The circle lifts, weightless,
as if gravity forgot its duty.

In that suspended second
nothing begins or ends.
Form leans into form,
and the garden agrees to it.