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Autumn Leaves

In the Autumn they would dance, as if the leaves were real.
But scraping sky with apples in eyes, they saw their love revealed.

Personal Text
When I lived in New York a platonic friend needed a date to her corporate Christmas party at the Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. I agreed to go with her, but I had no idea how to do the kind of ballroom dancing that would be a big part of the evening.

An ad for Arthur Murray’s dance studio caught my attention in the New York Times, and I thought “what the heck.” If you don’t know how to dance, just learn. The first day there, I watched a demonstration dance, a Rhumba, put on by two of the instructors. It was to the song Autumn Leaves. As I watched the beautiful dance instructor perform the steps, well, I was smitten. Fortunately, she was assigned as my instructor and—well, when they found out we were dating—they fired her. Neither of us minded a bit. We were married three years later, and now have three grown children, including a daughter who lives just a few blocks from the dance studio. Every time I walk by, it brings back memories of that song, and that dance, and that beautiful woman who is now my wife.

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