Greet the sun with applied heat.
Arch your back, shifting slowly,
until the elements unwind.
Grimace and swallow
the chalky amber of diluted coffee,
even this a reclaimed luxury.
See your son, the early riser,
already sparring with his sister over
who gets the “lucky” mat,
the one with the missing strap.
Review your list of prescribed motions
as soft foam spreads across hard tile,
and the children choose their doctor names.
Breathe deeply from the belly,
pushing out with practiced pressure.
Focus on the scattering light
while your children fashion
“exercises” of their own invention:
“Helicopter!” “Asteroid!” “Turtle!”
“You put your arms up and jump high!”
“…and your back is the shell, see?”
Watch them tumble, rolling with laughter
unblemished, with the assurance of youth,
and as they grow weary and slip away,
loose hair shuffling in the half dawn,
say you’ll be along soon,
finding your reflection
in their glasses,
mirrored and backset
by the wonder of their eyes.
Return to your mat,
bow your head in hope,
and as you reach forward
and feel the gentle pull,
know that despite your fears,
this will be enough.
Scott Ortolano is an English professor at Florida SouthWestern State College. His poetry and prose have recently appeared in Ponder Review, Across The Margin, Hawai`i Pacific Review, Rathalla Review,and Magazine1. You can usually find him reading, wandering, fishing, or frantically grading—often with his two children in tow. Follow him on Bluesky at @floridasnow.bsky.social and Instagram at florida_snow_. More of his work is available at www.SOrtolano.com