She dreams of movement, of turning without measure, of a body answering the quiet pull of joy.
She imagines her feet learning the language of air. She wants the moment when effort becomes grace.
She wants to spin until thought loosens its grip.
She wants freedom not as an idea, but as a living breath. In her dreaming, the room grows wider.
The walls step back.
The floor becomes a field of trust. Every turn opens another window inside her.
Every lift of her arms says she is still becoming. She does not rush the music.
She lets it find her. She lets it pass through muscle, memory, and longing.
Even stillness has a rhythm for her. Even waiting can feel like preparation for flight. Then, after all that reaching, she desires rest.
Not defeat, only peace. Not an ending, only a gentle settling. She wants to lay down her brightness for a while.
She wants silence that holds her kindly. She wants sleep to gather her like soft hands at dusk.
Thank you for the creative pictures spawning my poetry
The Quill of Samantha Grace Newcastle 