Spanish Leaves

It’s their concert,
the fall performance,
the one they’ve practiced
all year.

High on the stage
in the spotlight of the sun
they wait
until the instruments of wood and wind
orchestrate the prelude.

They do the Zambra, dipping, turning,
each on a long, slender leg of stem,
then glide from their place
in scallop-edged gownsheavy
wine-red,
ginger-pinch orange,
butter-fluted brownand
it’s all twirl
twist
spin

then the rustle
of the cloth settling about them
as they conclude their piece.

Their fifteen seconds of glory—
freedom, admiration, appeal—
all they slept
and ate and drank
stare down at them,
lying there on their backs on the outspread
skirts of fading gold.

Out of their reach
is the tumbling sun,
the wrinkled clouds bantering,
and nights black and sweet as plums
fold about them like dark grave clothes.

Roberta Dahlin