Lillian

Stretching is, to her, an art
In which each limb is tension-held
The arching high where muscles meld
And keep aloft the hidden heart

This yoga is, to her, no word
For there are only ears and toes
When curling to a graceful pose
The eyes are lines, each thought is purred

She lives here in the present tense
Does not engage nor theorize
Does not envision nor despise
But prowls there in the evidence

I'm sure my life would be like that
If I could be reborn a cat