Motion.

Alone, away, I swing. Without a baby I rock incessantly. In silence I dance. Chaperoned by the shade I drink up the cold sunlit wind and I waltz away my problems. After all this time, I still keep the ballerina shoes hidden in my soul. I dry up the rain with their residue and fervently I smash into puddles to wash away my anger, to ease the anxious wait for heat. The tropic calls me daily, yet it tells me to hold on. It will always be there to sing along to my steps. To dress my skin again with what should be the accurate temperature. The ballerina shoes in my soul translated to white sneakers with colorful marks. The tropical heat is replaced, for the moment, with 100% nylon lining and 100% polyester filling. I twirl seconds, I boogie to the hours, I chicken dance days and I ballet away the months. I need heat, I dance knowing it will soon be with me. For the moment at least I have my sneakers.