Reception Dancers

Their picture hangs, still—a sphere in my mind,
bathed in white light, one moment, one night.
Her dress a blue blur, his shoes brightly shined.
These two, I felt, had it all just right.
They made it look easy, like fine dancers do:
arms smoothly extended, fingers gently held.
He, slim and proud in Navy dress blues;
she, smiling shyly down as love surely swelled.
I see, then—still—a moment so pure,
a delicate bubble in uncertain air.
Maybe it’s only of moments we’re sure—
and of those, how many are shared?
White light refracts and bends—
might a perfect moment hold and mend?