Maestro (for Terry)

she approaches the table

her breathing evens, her spirit is gathered

she takes full possession of herself

the hands gently rest upon the back

one long satiating inhale

then slowly begin with the exhale

firm, always sure, always with purpose

only the hands touch

wise, so very wise

she would hold that all hands might be wise

were we to listen to them

honor them commensurate with their gifts

she listens as her hands read the body

read the body’s song

scored in a language deeper than thought

deeper, even, than music

a lifetime of listening –

to the wounded child in each of us

the frightened child, wanting to go home;

to the mystic child in each of us,

wondrous, endlessly amazed;

to hidden melodies others do not hear,

for they sound in the silent center of things –

all this is in her hands as

with singular consciousness

she becomes the servant

of the body’s song

you listen, for you have no choice

such is the force of her artistry

and, in time, you begin to hear it

the expansive romantic melodies of the muscles

the contrapuntal dance of facility and strength

the dissonance of pain resolved in release

the harmonies of sensation and emotion

the cyclical refrain of the breath

the humming warmth

the beating heart