Serenade

The curtain rises on Balanchine's "Serenade"

revealing rows of pale blue ballerinas, each

with an extended arm and outward facing palm

looking as if to shield their eyes from the sun.

Their alabaster limbs are frozen in place and

no one has moved even a solitary finger when

the scene starts to blur, a glowing cloud-like

opacity that melts the stage into formless colors.

It's not until I feel the solitary drop of water

rolling down my cheek that I realize it is neither

a cloud, nor rain, nor any other meteorological

phenomenon, but simply a middle-aged man

overcome by a sense of beauty that he cannot

describe or explain, but simply feels and reacts.

***