There is a moment before a meeting –
not of business but pleasure, not with foe –
where the mind still takes pause, spirit says, “No.”
It is a break in consciousness, fleeting
glimmer of soul in anxious worry, so
our hand freezes on key, at door, by all
manner of entrance (reversed Cinders’ ball,
but our glass slippers hidden; oh, we know
no pumpkin guise will overwhelm us, we
are aware). Then, our heart, too, flutters in
trepidation; thinking of the “ifs”, she
beats in like of fragile bird caught by He
(the one now waiting impatiently).
Breath taken, we step on through, eyes on him.
[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]