Once-loved relic of dancing feet,
New styles invade your elegant halls.
Though all around is blasting noise
One classic room devotes itself inward.
Little ladies in black and pink
With pointed toes,
So serene of face...
Learning French terms to Russian steps.
On the wall still pictures
Of ballerinas past look down on the scene.
They appear indifferent
Yet, approving all the same.
A teacher with steps of aged grace
Positions little, slippered feet.
Centuries of audience delight surrounds them,
Music lifts and wraps each step with the slightest smile.
How uniform and sweet each slender form,
Slowly bending,
Ankles lowly,
Arms arched in graceful curl...
Moving as a queen dancing in her secret garden.
Then bounds forth the rolling, orchestral piece,
Invoking leaps;
Each girl is threaded with exhileration and let loose.
First, a line,
A swirl...
Then into the air!
Held in place the heavy breath,
In pose, with poise... no less.
Not one student bereft of
Slight praise and much correction.
My girl spins and stands steady;
A quick smile at her dancing reflection.
Bright eyes and satin ribbons,
Motherly sighs from the gathered women,
Myself included.
Pride and joy in this room abound,
For here in this echoing, white-painted hall
Both art and music exist profound.
Meredith Greene
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