Pneuma


She stands, muscles carefully and methodically
   arranged in either relaxation or tension.
Her arms suddenly then fling forward and round,
   spinning her form rightward,
   whipping her long brunettes about,
   suspended for a moment in an airborne arc.
Music beats and crescendoes, and she is thrust forward
   onto the floor, falling and slamming,
Onto the dance floor.

As she interprets these airborne vibrations of sound
   into motions of grace,
Does she know Who suspends the air,
   Who made the wood of the dance floor,
   Who keeps her breathing?
Does she know the divine Breath Who envelopes her
   as she spins, falls, and leaps upward,
   bearing her up in His Spirit hand?