My legs are tired.
What makes them tired?
The street shows no trace of wear
from my walking.
I have never asked them
to do more than they can.
But standing up they ache
like losing one’s voice
before you speak.
It is perhaps what a bird feels
after a long migration.
Going south, as if winter
won’t follow.
As if time, weighing nothing,
never carries a burden.
Every second falling to the bottom
of an hourglass like a grain of sand.
Childhood flying in the sky
wingless.
A young man, and I carried
easily the burden of others.
Mature, I looked from windows
to see the weather.
I began to linger in the garden.
Now I carry a bag of dreams.
I am ready to go to high country,
where I can carry the vastness
below,
and say to myself,
I’ve been there.
It is where I lived.
Where I belong,
but my legs are tired.
The summit grows higher.
The view more spectacular.
I take a deep breath.
I sit and put my chin
on my knees.
Love keeps following,
and I wait for it.
My legs are tired.
I tell them,
thank you for bringing me.
I want to see everything
inside my soul,
where all the loving
still goes on.