Portuguese peppered bland silence.
Violins oiled the day’s rusted edges.
Flutes launched iridescent butterflies that swirled overhead.
Congas beckoned. Strongly. The congas beckoned strongly.
In grateful response, my body opened and curled.
Shook and spun. Gave itself up in samba. Rejoiced!
And a little Bossa Nova Fairy whispered
in my ear the secret of their magic. She said:
“You see, they all came together,
and convened in a forest of themselves:
strings, woods, winds, bells and passion-fire.
They touched one another with syncopation.
Pushed and pulled each other with staccato.
Teased the best out of each other with races and rests.
They made robust love, in this forest of themselves,
until each had given and played their best for you.”
Smile on the inhale.
Smile on the exhale.
Copyright © Erika Harris