The Fiddle And The Belly Dancer

“Can you play that thing?” she asked, as I packed up to go.
“I can,” I answered. Her gray hair sparkling in the sun.
“Well, the music don’t play itself,” she replied, waiting.
“I can’t make any money here,” I said, looking at the empty cup.
“Put that fiddle under your chin boy.
Play something gypsy. Something that moves.”
And as I played she began to dance.
Bells on her fingers tinkled in the breeze.
Swaying and swirling, her ragged clothes suddenly seemed new.
Sequins and colors flashed brilliant in the sun.
The people came and fell in love with her that day.
She twirled, and the music flowed,
entwining together to become one thing.
The music could not compete with her beauty as she twirled
her last, and I offered her the money from the cup, now full.
“You keep it boy,” she said with a smile.
“I only wanted to dance.”

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