Her Touch There is a young lady who sets the tables with the sun rising off her right shoulder. A lovely table cloth arrives, is fanned out and settled down, then slowly slid into the proper position. The condiments are placed, each at the end of an arc made balletic by an arm from a torso already turning to go. The chairs are assembled and a quorum is reached. Before the customers arrive, a small bouquet, no bigger than a fist but altogether kinder, alights adjacent the napkins, flanked by monsieurs salt and pepper, and she is off, pirouetting to tend to other tables, unadorned but eagerly awaiting her touch.
Almost missed this one! I bet her movements became precise and graceful through repetition, like a ballet dancer's daily etudes. Something that can be acknowledged only by a poem, methinks :)
Your wordplay is delightful!
Thanks Debi, we all need to have some playful times, right?
Yes!
Her dance reminds us how Grace is so underrated.. though once noticed never forgotten..
Some people have that quality of grace and it is a joy to behold.
Yes, joy and a privilege too I’ve found..
I feel that way too, the privilege part.
Almost missed this one! I bet her movements became precise and graceful through repetition, like a ballet dancer's daily etudes. Something that can be acknowledged only by a poem, methinks :)
Yeah, you could tell she’d done this thousands of times .
I like that girl.
A very elegant young lady. thanks Jonathan.
Of course, of course, that’s exactly what I meant :)
Lovely.
Thanks LeeAnn