The old bear hug— embrace from the rear, back labor
each time. Remember posture Is everything. Stand erect,
press hands on belly, fingers flank your navel.

Feet apart, head loose— fall back between the strains of
lost song. In circular sway, a white bird flaps its wings
down towards earth— dizzy— endless in its pace.

Swirling, it will not land although the sky is that icy orange
shade of clouds in the late afternoon of a California winter.
At last, the bird lands upon a lone branch of eucalyptus.

The trunk peels bark in withered shards.You lean against
the tree, your back covers the round hole, then slump—
knees up, palms resting on your gut, extends your

fingertips skywards spinning thoughts—
fiber for garments of praise.