Before Degas discovered his dancers
            sculpted, lithe
before exposed musculature
            capturing grace, beauty
before vulnerability
            in physical strength
before light
            of practice rooms
before shadows
            from waiting in the wings
before innocent faces
            masking pain
Edgar painted Mademoiselle Fiocre

Costumed,
            shimmering in light blue,
fanciful, flowery scarf
            about her waist;
head dressed
            with sparkles;
the outfit eclipses
            her small body -
only her delicate face,
            small hands,
tiny feet
            exposed.

Behind
            a woman in taupe
plays the mandolin
            she looks away
from the dancer,
            away from the water.
Below
            a young woman
in burgundy
            peers into the water.
Between
            a horse, unsaddled,
drinks
            from the pond.

My father declared
            on my 34th birthday,
"Now fully one third
            of your life is over;
the time for learning
            has passed."
Like Madmoiselle Fiocre,
            on the edge of the pond;
like Degas
            on the precipice of discovery,
we are hovering at one third
            peering out on the water
not knowing
            what we are looking at
but waiting, waiting
            for life to take hold.