Today, I feel my age. I willed myself
out the door to walk; an activity AARP,
my daughters, and my doctor agree to be
a must! I plod up a hill under sunshine
while a muscular, 30-something man
jogs effortlessly by. I feel mocked by
his energy. Unlike most days, I am
resting at every bench; wondering
about distance and my capacity to get there.
Two days ago, I swapped out walking
for gardening. Kneeling before the
cool spring earth, I dug in plants on my
altar of summer vision: a watercolor
extravaganza of red, purple, orange,
pink. The colors visually mixing and making
more: red-violet, blue-violet, "copper",
"blood"; the possibility of physical
strain hanging out undetected, while
imagination blazed over potential
glory in the lengthening days.
Today—stiff, sore, lame, I am a
dilapidated shoe held together by
worn, fraying laces; pain affirming
my passion for living flowers
rearranging on a breeze.
Smiling, I launch from the last bench
like all determined folks who eventually
reach home. Thinking of crows and their
penchant for garden mischief, I’m moving
a little faster.