fuzzy yoga props: a poem devoted to yoga with dogs

yoga dog.JPG

The dogs are not as neglected
as my practice,
since the baby came.
Gifted some time,
my mat rolls out
but they can be nearby, sitting.

My pace is too fast
to give them any purchase.
They’re still, except for eyebrows
that move side to side
as I up/down.
(Sun salutes, even though
it’s waning.)
They seem to be practicing
face yoga.
Maybe that’s why they seem not to age?

As my movements slow,
they watch for their window
from the beds where they lie curled
like two brown and white
quotation marks.

The spaniel plods over,
since I’m in pigeon.
My back leg is warmer now.

I stay longer than intended,
but he’s still disgruntled
because there are two sides.
He goes to drink.

Double pigeon.
Knee to ankle,
ankle to knee,
but I’m not feeling the flexibility
I once had here.
Feeling limited,
I can only imagine
how ridiculous we look
when the muscley dog
perches his bottom
on my bent over head.
And stays.

Until he leaves.
(Second side; orange ball.)

I lie down into Savasana.
My old dog returns and sits
both floppy and regal
between my feet.
He stares at me. I can feel it.
Unwavering drishti.

Number two returns
and licks my arm.
(Maybe it will stop.)
And licks my arm.

“No lick!”

They both wag their tails
and perk up their ears,
as if to say,
“Since you’re not dead…
could we have a cookie? Or a walk?”