In the middle of the night,

we hear a muted

trumpet rendition

of the haunting melody

from La Strada.

My old lady drops

her flannel nightgown,

emerges like a butterfly

from its cocoon,

and dances madly

like a flying Twyla Tharp.

Her body has the finesse

of a Stradivarius violin.

The dance sets free

dust motes from Tankas

that become a cloud of fireflies

with green-eyed patinas of love.

They whirl to the rhythm

of the film’s wistful tune.

Moonlight glints off the head

of our laughing gold Buddha.

After she collapses

in an exhausted heap,

we hear the voice

of Fellini,

demanding one more take.