Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Sema floor squeaks of powder, and the white robes of human sweat. Like the fledgling whose gray feathers can’t quite lift its fuzzy cargo, the spin wobbles.
But that heart, broken, embraces it all. Seeing the Divine in this old practice studio. The turning becomes centered. The bird, so colorful, embraces the sun.
Helen Klebesadel, "Cedar Dance I"