When I was young, I had the words
but nothing to wrap them around--
I was a weaver bird with the instinct to build, but not the flock memory.
Now I am old, and still have the words,
but find that I have said most of what I needed to say.
I no longer bleed as much, nor yearn so hard. The seasons change by themselves.
In the middle of this oddly mild mid-winter,
I set out, by myself this time.
My favorite dogs are gone, but I have this new one, and she wanted to come along.
I wore new boots with purple laces
and a stick I've grown attached to, and sometimes really need.
The sun stayed low but bright while we walked, and time turned easy and slow.
I didn't know, when we set out,
how much I would love that walk and the cold air in my lungs.
I called to my friend; she came back from the trees and we turned back.
Now I hate to have left that walk behind--
taking off my boots inside the door, I wonder when I can wear them again,
but somehow, aches are assuaged, and there is sometimes balm
for all the things we lack.