The Dame of Copenhagen

​Ghost like; she dances; an ol’ ballet. Each movement

measured, like notes written by Bach. The slow twirl

of her French braid unraveling, reflects above the mirror

of a violet hughed lake. Locked away under blue veils

of ice. With speed, she spins among ashen petals

of a nimbus. Gliding along, spurred, she snaps;

an arm flinging beads of sweat. Her breath composes

its own cloud. Like the white hibiscus of spring; her dress blooms.