Dreaming Sinatra

In the cold winter
when all is covered in white
the heart beats slower,
the voice speaks lower,
the body becomes a slug.

The soul, like a drug,
surges under skin,
calling out to any ear
hearing its request:

“Would anyone like to dance?
I’ve got this rhythm in me
just waiting to burst—
to jump right out of me;
…crash right into you.”

..

Her soul is eager;
always wearing dancing shoes;
yearning for Jazz June.