The icicles are getting long. The roads are narrow today because of the huge banks of snow extending into the street. I love this wintery white. The ice is lovely, like dripping crystals all along the edges of the houses. It looks like a painting.
I was wishing I could paint pictures the other day, so I worked on some construction paper with my two-year-old, making broad strokes with washable paint. And when it dried, the thick globs at the edges of the strokes were dark and intentional. Using the brushes and the paint was magnificent. I love the feeling of moving liquid color over a piece of paper. I guess I do that in poetry, too. The words flow in particular ways. The pictures I made were very close to what I have been trying in the poems about yoga. There is a swish of movement within each stroke, and the dark outlines are like the pose of the body in each asana, the particular position of hands, legs, shoulders. Here’s one of my favorites from my series on yoga.
I reach up and try to embrace You
in this space between asanas.
My arms form a circle and
when my hands meet,
You are not inside the circle of my arms.
Only an armload of jasmine blossoms
which fall through and onto the floor and mat
where I stand.
What is the point then, of these jasmine flowers
on my feet? I want You, and You give me flowers instead.
When I sit down on my mat, I put my hands
on my knees in the two-finger circle mudra,
and breathe this fragrance into my chest.
I wonder when You will come to me.
My face to Yours, instead of Your flowers
around my legs.
Then shavasana, I lie down in the petals.
My limbs grow heavy, and I close my eyes.
My breath is missing. I notice nothing.