You’d expect legs,
Knowing they be
More than we see
Do what one begs,
From beyond when
You knew not then,
Legs meant to carry
Shortly thereafter
We had been born,
Till body falters
Without we’d known
Legs made of bone,
Rust in wearing flesh
Yet hold their own,
Destined to walk
Or stand alone,
In just such stead,
Save loosing legs
Least not till we be dead,
Thus find no reason
To lament or beg,
Save fate chose compose
You won’t last the load,
Tho you want them back
Means to find one’s legs,
Be now cane, stick or peg
For the walking you have left!
ode to the pleasures of aging,
and the friends who’ve arrived.
Poetry on a canapé 
Walking is one of the most wonderful gifts. Thank you for this.
A wonderful gift indeed, walking. One gets to realize it all the more, when time and the effects of abuse, as in ongoing years of long distance running and speed cycling start to hint at the fact that the human body has its limits, no matter how infallible we con ourselves into believing we are. There is a wide variety of descriptively choice words for such people, myself included. I’ll let you choose your own, most fitting! Jean-Jacques