Walking

From walking, my thighs are strong,
my calves, my feet.

From swimming, my arms are strong,
my heart, my lungs.

From walking silently along the trail,
my ears can hear

the different calls of birds, the twigs
snapping, deer scraping

antlers on bark, the distant snort
of horses at a nearby farm.

From gardening, I can bend and squat,
lean and lift, touch the seed

sharp as a spindle on a coneflower
and not sleep,

wiser with gloves. From raking,
I am ambidextrous

and my shoulders evenly roll, smooth
in their same old sockets.

For all this am I grateful, and in awe,
aware how easily

all may fall away, my strength
and my confidence,

in the strong advance of time, a snow
storm, where I crouch

low beside the rickety, rust-colored
fence, there for another purpose,

while the white drifts high, heaps high
soft hills around me.

— Babs