walk slowed to a stroll by whiny knees, you summon
memories —  dashing down hills to the lake, delighting
in the run back up through the piney woods  

fingers stiff, you marvel that once you practiced
fine calligraphy, decorated tiny hair barrettes with flowers,
joked that you could paint angels on the head of a pin  

in physical therapy for “frozen shoulder,” you recall
being the one in the family to carry packages, rake
leaves, shovel your father’s car out of the snowbank  

let us not bore ourselves with more – the eyes,
the hearing and memory                                because today                                       

                                      as you lift your face to inhale                      
                       the lemon scent of a southern magnolia blossom  
                                                     you can fly