Christmas at the Yoga Retreat

Christmas at the Yoga Retreat


No holly, no lights, only the tree outside, lonely, unadorned,

but come to full term with the help of some higher power

which saved it from man’s need to turn trees into monuments

to whomever he turns when life is at low ebb.

For a moment now, it’s decorated with a winter bird or two,

and some orphan-snow in the crotch of a branch,

but we’re just a few days the other side of the solstice,

and the mothership, this creaky scow of ours, seems to be stuck on a sandbar

as it tries to right itself and chug a new path through the multiverse.

Now we can’t see much through the growing dark,

though those who study  the calendar assure us there’s some hope ahead–

and it just so happens:  Should we chuck it all for the sake of meditation?

becomes the very subject of tonight’s meditation.

Our leader tells us, This is the last full moon there’ll be on Christmas . . .

and then, looking around at our mostly aging crew

formed in an expectant circle, blurts this accidental truth:  . . . in some of our lifetimes

The way our days insist on crashing so predictably to their end 

seldom gets spoken in Canyon Ranch or Parrot Cay, those tonier joints

where more room will soon be needed for advanced yoga poses

by the young and lithe Brahmin–and where we tell ourselves

we  have no intention of spending the last few shekels of our bounty,

much less the frankincense and myrrh, left from our previous incarnations,

we keep stashed, against bad tidings to come, in our underwear drawer.


                                                            –From Exactly Like Love, Osedax Press, 2016