Rare Days

There were days when she felt like dancing-
like pulling up her long cotton skirt
and floating to the music of the old Victrola-
The same days when she felt
as though the circles beneath her eyes
and the arthritis in her fingertips
was a thing of the past.
There were days when her age
or her health-
didn't matter.
She felt nineteen again.

There were those few, rare days.

There were days when she shed
the thick woolen socks
and tight leather ankle shoes
and wandered outside barefoot-
where the warm sun made
the stone walk hot
and where the summer shade made
the green grass cool.
And she would walk to
the edge of the meadow
and imagine an end
to the sea of cornfields.

There were days when she would
let down her hair
and brush it the length of her back
and count the strokes
until she reached one hundred.
Then she would sit
in front of the old black fan
and pretend she was walking
in a rain storm
on an exotic street in Paris.

There were days when she felt like dancing-
like there were no boundaries
to what she could do
and who she could be.
Like life was just beginning
and
it
was
hers.

There were those few, rare days...