Box, like wind tossed galleons
dip and sway, pointing bows in
a confused piggle of rough
seas until I approach with
sharp steel; intent on trimming
galleons back to tiny
ballerinas, elegant
in a chorus-line of green
twirl, interspersed with tutus
of budding peonies in
deep heart-red, each one dancing
to memories of music
composed before time began;
before galleons, before sopranos,
sallied forth to encompass
the stage, their world, with their girth.