Flex forward and a row of rounded, fleshy knobs form in that muscled valley - straight and evenly-spaced.
Chest up & shoulders back and the knobs shrink, enshrouded; while those low, rolling knolls become bounded by scapular cliffs.
Dance about and a million topographies form and disband: all without a sharp corner - nothing but smooth transitions, gracefully made.
Fronts get all the attention, but backs are masters of the beauty of subtle change.
My spine bends and flexes, and I'm alive.
Sparks run in riffles down that line, and I'm alive.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry, yoga and tagged poem, poetry, Spine, Yoga by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
