Surge forth, oxygenated, full throttle,
Nary a drop of misplaced doubt
Leftover from a childhood of wishing,
You’ve arrived, despite being parched
Glacial waters free of silt
Powered, pure but impure all the while,
As if you’ve dusted off the record player
And heard the voice of Maria Callas singing to you
On a rainy Saturday in November, windows steamed
Tempting your finger to clear away the dew
Softening the harsh outside world
En pointe, harmonious, the residue of perfection
The way a perfect cup of French Roast leaves a trace
Fully realized, as satiating as the final curtain call
No audience needed,
Defying the odds and timed more perfectly
than a first kiss.