Here, I sit in your lap. 
Patient, tense, still, alert. 
The push and pull that hatha brings
To a bright Tuesday afternoon. 
Fingertips touch,
Mirror images of cold toes,
Kissing like the holy palmer’s did
All those years ago. 
Except that was fantasy, 
And I am real in you.

Sandalwood and jasmine warms
As the tumble dryer crashes waves
And wets walls. 
I ground deep into the earth and creep out tendrils
Into the topsoil, bedrock and salt. 
My web interlaces its  fingers with others
As I sit in contemplation. 
Breath is the only constant. 

Fizz and bubble from my joints
And seep up my back like damp.
I feel each of them,
Acknowledging their intensity
Allowing them safe passage through me 
Like the open window gives the summer breeze. 

Some get stuck in the traps I’ve set myself,
Blockages and boulders 
In my neck and my shoulders
Stopping energy dead.
Letting the river surge and break banks
From energy to frustration
Tension is my forte but when I sit with you,
it is no longer. 

I roll the stone away, 
Ready to be born again. 
The privilege of rebirth is not contain to men 
Who gave their life in sacrifice
But to those who allow their former selves 
Release on the out-breath 
and the opportunity to be
Born again on the in.