The Practice

Liz Cahill

wait for the cortisol to recede
for the sand of soft sound to touch your feet
I could be cooking
or serving tea
take a sip
my hand’s within reach

wind across the mandala
blows image into dust
legs tangle

slip into sky
threads of thoughts
and prayer flags
lines of a silent language
translates rhythm into limbs

catch me
dip my fingers
deep into breath
sync chest to breast

us for practice