100 Word Prose Poem on My Dancing Friend

He shows up once a year. To dance. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t think. He moves. His body speaks the poignant words his lips can never manage. Passion manifests itself in snap and groove. Love is made; hearts are broke, each step by step. Sleepless nights and days in bed get told through his eyes; the angle of bent hips. Hair becomes the breeze; shoes an ancient rhythm as common as the birds that sing; he’s been doing it as long. A groove to come and go each Spring; immortal like the sky. Constant, fleeting, footwork past the February cold.*

*Yup. A Spring poem in Fall.