She is tiny, yet explosive,
When she’s in the right attire,
Her motions paint a picture,
Her passion burns like fire,
She leaps across the stage,
Which could be anywhere at all,
And at her highest point,
She’s still the smallest of them all.

Following behind the others,
She adds her own touch,
Bending, spinning, stretching,
She could never move too much,
Sometimes when no one’s watching,
She pretends to be a swan,
Gliding across the waters,
Queen of her own pond.

And when her day is over,
As she packs away her shoes,
In her mind, she’s still dancing,
To all of her favorite tunes,
She hears Beethoven and Bach,
And her toes take there point and stance,
Little ballerina,
I hope you always dance.