Vibration


The teacher

Her grey hair thick and spilling

Chanted Om in quiet room

Filling with vibration

The beat of our efforts

Twisting, turning against, Winter’s pinch

She places her wide palm

On my pain

We say nothing

The movement is our language

I see my thin arms

Draw in unknown strength

Holding me up, though I would lapse

I remember being seven

A year since my mother was gone

The door still too heavy to open on my own

Practicing in a room of adults

One lady had a long back and narrow waist

Another, cast her shoulders against

Cold draft of late arrivals

I was relieved to be 

A child

Not yet held to standard, free to swap error 

Watching others

Pile obligations on their shoulders like camels

Bending low to earth

Forgetful of the impulse

To stare into the sun