Ballerina

Mother she is peaceful when she moves,
in silence of friction,
a revolving socket.
Flies like a bird I dream to catch her,
she hums a humming bird
when she flips her leg in the harmonious air.
Svelte in her making,
her legs turn, twist, twirl, twine and coil.
Her hands dance, draw, paint and dine.
Her waist is wispy and waft
designed to amuse the audience.
A human dainty waist fabricated to gyrate.
She kills me when
she touches the ground and
rumble and storms her
technique is perfect like a cat.
Her eyes blue as the ocean
sorry I mean teals.
She is my ballerina girl.