I’m growing into old.

Settle into chairs with a plop.

Rise out of them two-handed,

thankful for forethought of

choosing one with armrests.

*

There are creaks in the

coming and going now.

Sometimes it’s the cracks

in the wood—loose bolts.

Mostly it’s me, groaning.

*

In the effort of defying gravity,

I am grateful for movement,

even the slow kind.

More deliberate liberation

is humbly declared.

*

There is a beauty in deceleration.

Less distraction, more traction.

Reminders to stay low, pay attention

to where the next step will fall,

and in the falling I can,

by grace, take one more.