when joy shines

when joy shines
in my teacher's eyes
when measured tones
speak the middle way
when softened hands
press down and lift
when sweat drenches my mat
from these words and this path
till we lie like the dead
alive and washed in the peaceful tide
of slow even breaths
then sit
and open our hearts and hands
to greet
and speak, "Namastai,"
radiance from my teacher's brow
washes over me
till my stiff wooden frame
begins to bend and creak
in the heat of that joy
and the steam of that sound
we do not speak