In dance, runners take root— damp, eager for the heat
— in specific ways, intimating their relations with earth.

In song, runners take shape outstretching branches—
softening tentacles parting the mist.

In story, runners are seats for dancers— golden limbs
resting against the rose until dust calms— moves again.

In space, runners incline between smoky branches—
contours touch until within reaches of stems,
seed pod flames. Liquid petal flows.

In grapes, runners flood. Drought has stolen shapes
from the startled deluge. All forms must turn,
save reddish gold— trimmed in green.

In spirit, runners moan mystery, pulse of champagne,
bright fountain of brandy.

Even as shadows dance, joy sings out this dark history.