The Lived Body

 

"I walk the line my senses weave,

With eyes unlit, yet still believe.

Each step a truth I cannot see,

Yet always was, and always me."

In this dance of daily life I stride,

A silent compass set inside.

With every step, a truth I find,

A quiet knowing in my mind.

The ground beneath—a pulse, a beat,

A wordless whisper to my feet.

My limbs awake, my muscles sing,

Each motion born on hidden string.

Without a glance, I sense the way,

The arc, the tilt, my body’s sway.

My joints keep watch through dark and light,

A silent story in the night.

The weight I bear, the breath I take,

Each move a choice, each choice awake.

My body is the eye that sees

The wind’s soft hand in bending trees.

I need no sight to walk the line;

The space I hold is wholly mine.

My hands will trace the cheek’s warm curve,

My feet recall where they must swerve.

The roads I’ve walked, the turns I’ve known,

Are etched in muscle, nerve, and bone.

I walk the line, I feel the flow,

The muscle’s thread, the tendon’s show.

A quiet wisdom, steady, bright,

Guides me with its hidden light.

And in this current, soft and deep,

it carries me as rivers keep

their course through valleys, carved and true,

without a map, yet always knew.

I move within this woven stream,

half waking thought, half tender dream.

The air itself becomes my guide,

it shifts, it leans, it swells, it slides.

I answer not with thought or word,

but in the way my weight is stirred.

The floor remembers where I’ve been,

the walls breathe out, I breathe them in.

Each step a note, each pause a rest,

the music played within my chest.

And so I dance through night and day,

not lost, not found—just on my way.

For in my bones the truth takes root:

that every step, both loud and mute,

is part of something vast and wide—

a song my body knows inside.

A precious knowing stays with me.