backyard ballerina


Swirling. Whirling.

The sun sets warmly behind the hill, casting a pink orange glow over you.

Dance, my ballerina. Dance.

Faint music plays out from upstairs, but you hear your own song and dance to your own rhythm.

Leaping. Turning. Jumping.

Arms wrapped in a ballerina circle. Your tutu sparkles in the evening light.

Running through the twilight coolness of early summer.

Somersaults over the rich thick grass. All landings are soft and welcoming.

Go dance, little ballerina.

The backyard is your stage and the universe is watching you.

The freedom of youth envelopes you and fills your soul.

Dance my ballerina, dance.


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