A Poem: A Practice

I wash my hands
of possession, procrastination.

Swipe right,
one palm across the other,

scattering all that clings.

Then bring the two together,
skin to skin,

that my hands are now a steeple
soft against the chest.

An opening
to an inner kingdom.

With chin
resting upon fingers,

and the closing of my eyes
bidding my bodies acquiescence

to the position of the soul.

That now a leaf in the wind,
or an air-stream through a flute

I can lift free of restraint,
and the world’s tender grip.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
July 2021


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