a morning poem

A poem. Not the one I'm working on. Someone else's; one I quite enjoyed. If I'd written this one, it could be called "Tuesdays with Jenn." And it would have to include a little guy doing happy baby pose throughout.

Thursday mornings with Ruth

She's put the heat on in the studio. I arrive, reluctantly, in Lycra. The coffee has barely
made a dent. My body looks more awake than it is. We begin with Om, and soon,
the forward bends and Downward Dogs begin to irritate. My right thigh
feels the burn from Warrior 2, my left toes purpling with concentration. I'm hardly in the swoon
of this practice. The call to meet resistance meets resistance, and "gratitude"
is a far cry from where I'm now kneeling, head tilted toward the back wall, millimeters
from dizziness. My center, it turns out, is off-center. I feel frightened, stiff, and rude,
a towering failure of grace. And so it goes, like last night's snow crusting the trees.
Today, the sun erupts and clears them. Up close, there is a glimpse of what's to come:
A bud, shaken from sleep, struggling against its inevitable bloom.

— Maya Stein

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