I got stopped by a little flower,
lying upside down on the sidewalk.
A Plumeria flower,
it must have fallen from a nearby tree.
I picked it up,
gently rolled its stem between my thumb and pointer finger,
observed the striking red and white lines that blend together like cookie dough. Delicate yet sturdy,
smooth to the touch.
“These are the petals,
this is the flower’s face,
this is nature’s brightest red.
I work too much,”
I said to myself.
“You are so beautiful,”
I whispered to the flower.

When I sit, I do aspire
to rest my flesh as it requires;
One leg up, the other down,
or the other way around,
the chair, a friend, a cherished clown.

When I sit, I don’t aspire
to rest my flesh as it may requires;
but as my mind, attuned to art,
looks at the chair without a heart.
Or as that too compliant clerk
all he thinks of is his work.

My pose, my thoughts, my actions too,
Each glance at things, a little new.

Custom, beliefs, might be the glue,
I didn’t think this fully through.

Not one breath can be the same,
Embrace the change, don’t try to tame.

Knees, hips, and lower back,
please keep me smoothly on my track.
My head, my shoulders, and my neck,
keep on moving, do not crack.
I am grateful for each day,
might just jump up cheer »hooray«,
let me get this off my chest:
When you’re well I feel my best.

grown-ups
everywhere
speaking and acting as if
they were still
in that classroom
in those schools they were put-in as children
as if their school teachers were still standing next to them
grading them
teaching them their place
in·ex·tri·ca·bly
stuck in the endless illusion
of upcoming final exams

lift one knee
a little bit
let
your hip joint roll
around its leg