“ Finding One’s Legs ” ~ for walking you have left ~

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.

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