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A Life That Moves
by Sybil Smith

Coming back from my yoga class
I saw an old woman
with white, permed curls
tossed about in the wind,
in a parked car, sitting sideways,
the door open, her feet planted
on the pavement, †
her head bent to the tentative May sun,
loathe to miss
this infinite minute of spring,
loathe to miss the heat †
of the climbing ball of flame
to which we owe everything.

I saw it clearly
in a way that pierced †
any lingering ennui
with life,
with the weather, seasons,
the job of waking each day
and setting out to create meaning,
or if not that at least †
some kind of cohesion.

Because thatís what we all want, isnít it?
A life that moves
from dirt to light,
pain to peace,
from the blood and struggle
of being human
to being more human,
standing straighter,
taking our hands
from the ground
to a place near our heart,
and over our head, even,
high, open, above us,
as in the Sun Salutation;

ready to welcome
a God, if one should come.

Iím not holding my breath, though.
I donít hope for a deity
who tracks our waking hours †
like a tireless spy.
That God would be a bureaucrat
and it seems we have
enough of them.

Iíve let go †
of sweet promises handed down by men,
the carefully written holy prescriptions,

and learned to let my miracles
be humdrum,
an old woman sitting in the spring sun,
sufficient unto the day
where lilacs bloom
and worms perform
their benign alchemy.