Miss Moon hums into my left ear
as I drive to Mount Olivet for yoga,
she bends so close she touches my shoulder,
her day-glow appearance
reveals a little less every morning
leaving one guessing about her intentions

Me and six ladies lay down
on the floor in the back meeting room
for stretches suited for septo- & octo-
genarians. Jenny, our beautiful instructor,
tells us our bodies are fully
integrated circuit boards 
with a current running from our
right toes up across the arch
of our cranium down to the left toes.
During relaxation I fall asleep
dreaming of a Ma Bell operator 
I dated in the sixties: her symmetry,
balance and sweetness.  Rising
to consciousness, i see that Jenny
has a sack of Mirabell plums
for everyone to share.

On the way back home
I Sunday drive on this Monday morn,
suck in the ripe air, become
an inspector of root cellars, well kept
stables, kitchen gardens.
Silly Miss Moon plays hard-to-get
but the lilies are having their day