begging bones
my tailbone begs for a long, low stretch that starts with my head to my chin and my legs rising so that my shoulders can hollow and my chest can dip as my waist folds in on itself so that my dear forgotten tailbone can creak its song of awe and freedom from the weight of the brain mass that compresses it into subservience to things that strain the eye and wobble the mind and settle nothing in the spirit but the knowledge that sitting on my ass is not the way i want to generate energy, meaning, and verve as i end my days. movement is life the qi jong teacher said just yesterday when my arms floated and my head peered over my own right shoulder and the twists and gentle pounding jostled my spine in a jubilation better than the syllables i had pounded into the framework called a document that appeared on a shadowless screen, its flat affect, when my tailbone knew what i really needed was to bring a deep breath into my heart space and to go long and low, knees bent, butt up, feet planted, feeling anatomical parts that link me to the birth of goddesses.
