A geisha in the making

Sweet music flutters through the air

Like butterflies disturbed from their resting place

The Maiko sits and plucks the strings

Of her wooden shamisen

Her face a touch of powdered chalk

Lips rosy red like ripened cherries

Delicate jewels adorn her jet black hair

She yearns to succeed in all she does

Learning from the geishas that too once sat,

where she now practices the art

She rises from where she sits

Her body floating effortlessly across the floor

Her hands so delicate caress the air

All eyes on her, no words are spoken

The swift flick of her pale white wrist

Short gasps of breath from the tortured souls who sit

wanting, waiting

They will have to wait

As the maiko is not ready to spread her wings alone

Soon enough she will become a geisha

And then, only then, will she be born