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Yellow Dance


Yellow Dance
by Wanda Stricklin Robertson


When spring was new, 
winter still lingering beneath the budding trees; 
the soil cool and full of worms, 
we planted the tiny seeds.


We wanted the dance.
Seed must be sown;
 without the sowing, there is no harvest.  
There can be no dance.


A spoonful of tiny seed, 
some sunlight, some water. 
Some pulling of weeds 
while the sun burned our skin.


We waited with patience, 
knowing they would come 
Home with the equinox,
 ready to do their dance.


And now we rest, rewarded for our work. 
Tender butterflies with wings of sun
dance from blossom to blossom, 
and the dying is sweet.


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