The Massage

On the table in the peaceful room,
I  wait  to see what this new creator will make of me.
I  experience a virtual reality–
each stage of her touch
a different story.
Body and soul, I am
the medium for her message: the massage.

Standing over the table in the stove-warmed room,
she is the cook.  I am the bread dough she is kneading.
My leg is a green onion
having its outer skins pulled gently off.

In  the very warm, peaceful, quiet  room,
her fingers knead and fold,
rocking  my separate parts into
one whole ball of clay.
There is artistry in her touch as she folds my left arm
out  like a wing, then in like a handle,
and I am well on my way toward being a teapot
as she forms  my right  arm into the spout.

In the quiet room gone back in time,
I am Dad in his easy chair after a long day mowing hay,
saying, “Rub Pa’s head.”
She is me, scratching  fingers through his hair
kindly, lovingly, with just the right amount of vigor.

On the table in the warm room,
I am hot taffy being pulled by the well-buttered hands
of four little snowbound girls
In Clara Brost’s kitchen.

From this room now expanding,
I am stretched by her fingers through both space and time.
She is sea brine. I am protoplasm,
buffeted back and forth,
and when at the end she cups my ear,
I can hear the ocean
As from a shell.

For RDP Thursday, “Peaceful.” Image created making use of AI.