by Nathalie Goykhman
Discouraged by her nine-to-five in class she hopes to bud.
Padmasana: that which is born out of the muck and mud.
Expansive chest sitz bones planted like tuber roots that grow
into lakebeds. Sepal fingers cradle dewdrops thoughts slow.
Another breath a departure whirling incense a pause–
smoke dissipates to-do lists slip beneath the mat. Her flaws
are less daunting in Lotus Pose floating limbs fold serene
exhalation disturbances beneath ripples unseen.
Sometimes the winds the pelting rain tousle her fine petals.
But debris rolls off petal tips. The calm blossom–settles.