Al-Mu’id: Reviving What is Worn Down
They laugh when I bring CDs instead of MP3s,
setting the tone for yoga class
but it is gently done.
I needed to chuckle with them,
watch how they shake rain off their coats
and out of gray hair,
how they fold themselves onto the mats
not like dancers, no,
more like boulders and tree roots
and all things substantial.
I ache with the fine, light drops today,
even though my body is more limber
than it has been in months,
and in child pose, I whisper Ya Mu’id,
more a cry than a word of praise,
more a breathing out, hoping
they won’t see the tears
when we rock back on our heels.
A body folded over mind
will squeeze such things out.
I want you to see it,
two damp streaks,
as if you were crouched right beside me.
It’s hard when I don’t know if
I am struggling to revive a corpse,
clearing out weeds and folding in compost
with nothing in mind to plant just yet.
Revivals sound like blue grass
and strong, peaked EKG graphs.
I’m happy enough
enough, enough, enough,
today with qigong circles,
eddying their way
through hatha yoga’s thicker lines.
Find the entire poetry collection This Nurturing Awe: Poems Inspired by the 99 Beautiful Names of God at