In the afternoon sun
on the dusty wood floor
the cat paw shadows waltz
out from under the door.
Spinning like dials
on a bright golden face,
the couples entwine
in the shadows of space.
Inside our snowglobe
a sparkling ice falls
the synchronized turning
the watchface enthralls.
And if captured in glass
like the bottled up ship
faint music would call us
to follow the steps,
and twirl until dusk
to the purplish moor,
a charmeuse end of day
to waste until four.
Sandra Jones 
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