By Andrea Lingle

Who is the rhythm master?

The toe-tapper who beguiles and charms

Our hearts. Until they join the deep 

Drum-Beat of the universe.

Who sets the tempo

For the pulsing, whirling quasar and quark?

Does a rhyme imply reason,

Or a phonetical chance?

Do my feet fall into step or ‘to line?

I long for the dance of the stars

To mirror the throb of my heart,

But. If. Not. 

Will I hum along if there is no tune,

If the sky rolls though an aching void? 

What if the dance is absurd?

A gambol is worth the risk.

I will sing to the morning,

I will dance with the wind,

I will join those who dare to believe

That the rhythm of love is composed.