In the quiet room where shadows meet the light,
Her fingers trace the atlas of the human form,
Not just bones and sinew in her knowing sight,
But the subtle language bodies speak in a storm.

She reads the tension harboured in a shoulder's curve,
The silent story is told in how a patient stands,
The hidden grief that tightens every nerve,
All revealed like braille beneath her gentle hands.

Some need movement—prescriptions penned with care,
Exercises mapped to heal the body's cry.

Others crave the simple presence she can share,
Her touch is a balm no medicine can buy.

This is her art: to listen with her palms,
To know which wounds need strength and which need rest,
To sense the spirit beneath the body's qualms,
And offer what will truly heal the best.

She carries science in her mind, compassion in her heart,
The skilled healer works where both worlds start.