All through life…
My steps used to fall into natural rhythm,
easy as I got the hang of walking,
was no longer carried everywhere.
Such regular steps almost like a metronome
speeding up or slowing with heartbeat,
laborious up or racing down mountains
in the Adirondacks of my childhood.
When skulking I walked pigeon toed
as Dad told me this would make me silent…
These days I doubt, but it was fun
pretending to be Native hunting deer.
If twig snapped I pretended not to hear.
Silouhettes of mountains denote staggered
wavelengths which occur in rest of life
as well, waxing and waning of vitality.
The rhythm of walking was natural but now
I use a cane since thighbone broke and healed,
steps stuttering as I try to get the hang of it
surely as I did the first time ‘round.
~ Wry Welwood
5th of June, 2021
Written in response to J.D. Harms’ Saturday prompt in Scrittura: the outdoors.