to Gopi and the women in her teacher training
We stop and start, yogena, trying too hard
to not try too hard, voices smooth water moving slow
over the tremble of stone, the ease of eddy.
We want to land on each syllable, tilt it right
with inflection at just the right speed. We want
to sing with heart, to arrive together, in the lush
clearing of sharirasya despite the age of Kali,
our sore backs, the weather, and the small hurt telling us
we could never sing or sing well enough.
Invoke us Patanjali enough that each can
take her turn, sing a line to read the uncommon brail
of her heart, the common book we make together
out of pressed flowers from long ago, an apple
this afternoon, a long walk not yet taken,
sing us home, our long wings spreading,
our deep bones breathing
harih om
