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