A Solitary Dancing Slipper

To admire the strong, the sturdy, the confident who grace the vast expanse of our experience and do not even notice when their time has past — is a wonder. Many flock to such a unique and gifted soul that does not hesitate to raise her face, high, chin tilted; tis her nature not her desire that carries her through that life, where mine is short or subtle cry escapes. She could no more be me, than I her, and if dwelling in her true nature she holds no bold proclamation of being “better than” for she bears a tremendous responsibility to all those who seek her out and beg of her essence in excessive quantities. To bee and butterfly she is Queen and her mantle could weigh heavily if she were not at ease in her own individuality, born to this, her duty, her vocation.

I do not want this, though I admire her qualities … her beauty, abundance, sweetness, praises sung to her that vibrate across the land. Look how long she has to live! Look how much she has to give! Devoted to those who bow in her presence as they redeem their devotions from her stores of energy.

Yes, she may grow earlier, stand stronger, give more, spread, be admired by all, living longer, and feel no defeat when felled in her own time. Yet, honest and praiseworthy though she may be, would be a shame if were no diversity.

singleLadySlipperSo let her spread in obvious profusion, and I in my hidden glen, a single stem of green wearing a pink slipper, shall dance unseen in dappled dim day and mellow moonlight while the air carries my essence, the rain and dew linger in my cup that allows a few in need to drink, a brief interlude I stand here swaying and then just as softly sink into the humus for another long, sweet sleep, thankful that a devotee held a chalice into which the unique essence of this moment and me could seep. I am become immortal, outside the bounds of time and space when in Gaia’s Grace, and known as both separate and One. Feel into Her — now. Do not wait, for my time, my nature, may not be the longest stranding or hardiest or sweetest, but I am vital if only to offer a solitary sip to a weary traveler in a hidden forest.

The poetry portal by Emily that led me into the above was: 


There is a flower that Bees prefer — 

And Butterflies — desire — 

To gain the Purple Democrat

The Humming Bird — aspire — 

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And Whatsoever Insect pass—

A Honey bear away

Proportioned to his several dearth

And her—capacity—


Her face be rounder than the Moon

And ruddier than the Gown

Or Orchis in the Pasture—

Or Rhododendron—worn—


She doth not wait for June—

Before the World be Green—

Her sturdy little Countenance

Against the Wind—be seen—


Contending with the Grass—

Near Kinsman to Herself—

For Privilege of Sod and Sun—

Sweet Litigants for Life—


And when the Hills be full—

And newer fashions blow—

Doth not retract a single spice

For pang of jealousy—


Her Public—be the Noon—

Her Providence—the Sun—

Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—

In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—


The Bravest—of the Host—

Surrendering—the last—

Nor even of Defeat—aware—

What cancelled by the Frost— 

~~ Emily Dickinson (#380 Johnson)

Thank you for sharing.

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