The Retired Army Rangers of WWII Annual Banquet

Bowing from the waist, courtly you held out your hand
And beckoned me from my seat.
Who, me? Yes, you, and nodded with an aged smile
Blue eyes that did not wait to see the whites of theirs
At Normandy
My skirts swirled and danced, sensed the anticipation
Teetered toward you with a questioning smile
Hello, sir, thank you for coming out tonight,
Poised with idle conversation.
But your hand, which once stormed that shore
Drew me sweetly, still strongly, to the dance floor.
And when my satin slippered toe touched the wood
I danced into your era, lead by your firm hand
And coaxed into the steps you know by heart.
The band played Song of India while people whirled,
And beneath my young, eager feet the floor
Gentled, held me straight and womanly
Within your dying arms.