Ballroom Slippers

Mudspattered and roadworn

they are still lovely.

The gold embroidery,

catching in the candleflicker

and the mossy grey leather

suple as beechbark,

are tarnished by the dust

of walking miles for this night.

Her skirts twitch up, floating

as she floats, finding her heartbeat

with the trilling of the oboe d’more

and the swell of strings.

She is not the most beautiful,

no belle of the ball,

not in a hand me down gown

and old slippers

but still she dances, and still she is

beautiful.