Ballet Shoes

Gentle pink slippers, hugging each other close,
patched where the push of toes nearly broke
a hole. Scuffed a little, dirtied by the warmth
of the floor. Faded nearly to the point of grey,
though still with a hint of posies. The delicate
straps clinging with the will to remain, to see
the busy-ness of a morning class. And the soles,
smooth as glass, that long glided across a

familiar room now sit like stone. Crushed,
pruned shoes, shriveled after years of being
admired for their grace, no longer able to play,
stranger to the soak of sweat, grounded in
the passing of time, no longer able to jump
and see, as if from the edge of a great cloud,
the pink-lipped smile of the slender girl

who could never bear to give her shoes away.