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.