SALSA-SOULS

The musicians glided
into the room,
like apparitions
in barefoot light,
floating on gossamer
winds from Cuba
to the quiet flowing
of a restless dance floor,
as familiar as a
Havana memory.

Salsa-souls
from another time
in expanding space,
glowing brightly in white
to where begins
a Saturday night.

Bound only to the true road
of a musical journey,
they carry few riches,
except for the flowers
of rhythmic melody
that bloom in tempo
with other blooms
on a garden stage
of a cabaret.

The passage of passion,
embraced by the
intoxicating intensity
of freedom of spirit,
sings to my heart
and to the eternal crystal
of my salsa-soul.

So I go there
to be alive
in the shape-shifted
poetry of pure motion,
to rhythmically meld
my body and mind
to another,
to breathe the magic air
of a kindred spirit.

I go there
to dance the dance
of eternal harmony,
to cradle
unforgotten softness,
to never forget
the permanent tenderness
of the twoness in me
and in all things.

© JOHN PISCATELLA