Perpetual Motion

By: Amanda Curless

I am the curve
of the ballet slipper, between
the stage floor and the dancer.
I am the stiff green shoots
stretching a leaf from it's branch
reaching for something blue   and floating.  
I was the sky just after the rain storm
cracked and teal for a moment--
before spreading open
to the moon and its stars.
I am the cut grass, stinging in pain--
made to let go of its pieces
to make itself new and moving  
on with its cuts  
bare to the wind.
My body, a river, that kicks and beats stones until they lodge  
into the ground below
and I wash up on the shore
deep and muddy  
sand between feet and grass.  
I am floating in the wind  
after long currents  
carrying me--  
made of yellow  
flesh and roots.  
I am the crease in the tree limb scratching towards the sky--praying kneeling--
grasping for air.  
I am a canvas  
folded over braces of wood
stretched and taught fine,  
underneath layers of color--
strokes so careful  
and studied.
Underneath, I lay, white and bare-- not really a part
of what shades me  
and keeps me rigid.