During Tree Pose

Our yoga teacher reminds us to grieve.
She wears blue leggings and a yellow top
for the people of Ukraine, so I believe
that is what she means. A few moments pass
before I understand she has commanded
us to breathe. By then I have already
taken in the wisdom of the word
I heard. As if she knows
how those I love are leaving me.

Maybe she also knows
among us is a mother who has lost
her child to fentanyl, a man whose heart
keeps losing its rhythm, a woman who loses
her words, blurring and coming apart
like the contrails we glimpse
through the yoga room window.

Stay aware of your grieving. Yes,
let me feel its darkness
in the back of my throat, sliding
down into my ribcage. Let me follow
its fog as it fills my belly, as it climbs
back up, and out,
and I will follow it in again.

Through the window I see
the oak leaves on the ground
clumping brown and wet from rain.
How did I miss
their moment of incandescence?
Have I forgotten the time I glanced
out this window, startled
by the compassion of a sun shower?

Grieve. We work to hold ourselves tall,
despite knees losing
fluidity and ease, each of us planted
on one leg, balancing, arms
reaching skyward, hearts
open, lifting, holding,
and at the same time letting go.

Stephanie Striffler is a former lawyer for the people of Oregon. Over the years she has participated in the care of multiple family members, including a partner with cancer, a loved one with Alzheimer’s and a loved one with Parkinson’s Disease. Poetry saves her life every day. Her poems have appeared in Calyx Journal, Tar River Poetry, San Pedro River Review, Denver Quarterly, and other journals. She finds joy and solace birding, and has observed eight species of sparrow in her Portland yard.