I do not trust my bones
to shop but, glad of my
wool coat, I stop, take stock
of heart and breath and
hesitate to step until I know …
and so my slow procession
takes me where I want to go.
But now and then I seem to know
that being old is being more
as doing slows and age lifts
expectation from my step
and blessed uncertainty
takes hold my arm and
asks me where I want to go.
I cannot drop from step or kerb
expecting hip or knee to bear
my weight of years, or any more
absorb the shock of earth. But,
glad of my wool coat, I’ll slowly go
to where I know a taxi waits
to take me where I want to go.
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