When I touch some old injury and cannot shake the pain,
I do not think to swim with power and grace.
It is enough to become engulfed by rhythm.
The ebb and flow of the breath.
I watch how the mind controls the body.
Tending wounds from before and before and before.
From the child, to the young woman, to the now.
Steeping them one on one on another
like the fathoms of water I lie on.
My legs do not slip through water.
They follow the heart.
My arms do not wax and wane
Except by the force of habit.
Not dancing strong and slender through air and water.