Time abandoned; much free-flowing dancing.
A sliver of the crescent moonlight shimmers.
The old man on the moon, downward glancing,
pours pure nard on one star; your gown glimmers.
Music fills her soul, and the moment is entrancing
as she dances across the cosmos, skitters
beautiful butterflies, floating freely past,
sipping the nectar of God; rebirthed at last.

Timpani's light thrums pace the orchestral
composition backed by a choir of angels.
Hosts of soloists sing words of ancestral
truth as written on stone by archangels.
Flying above, against all odds, a Kestrel
makes the way clear for the coming death angel.
She dances; Mother Mary, consumed with Joy,
sees her son, Jesus whom man could not destroy.

Over two thousand years have come and gone
while Mary twirls, flooded with elation
as mankind, on bended knee at Easter dawn
prays so thankfully for God's creation,
Jesus was born for man's sin to take on.
Such a profound gift, some bow in prostration.
'Tis easy to see the pure celebration
of a mother portraying such elation.