With her Keds strung across her tiny shoulders,
she frolicked in the street as it rained
and danced to music she alone heard.
Knees a blur as her yellow dress swirled,
this tiny spinning sun transformed
wet asphalt into a magical place.
She splashed across that unlikely stage,
performed and bowed, then flittered away,
directed by an aberrant breeze
to dance for other eyes to see.
I smiled as she left yet rued her loss,
still look for her whenever it rains,
might catch a glimpse early in spring
as a season's final snowflake melts.
Jerry Krajnak, a former altar boy and a Vietnam veteran who later survived forty-plus years in public school classrooms, now lives in an old mountain cabin that he shares with several rescue animals and, when lucky, an occasional grandchild or two. Over the last year, his poems have appeared or will soon appear in New Verse News, Plants and Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Sublunary Review, I-70 Review, Barstow & Grand, SBLAAM, and other journals and anthologies.