Again the invitation
to love the body
this very moment.
Not the way it was once,
all limber and lean,
all smooth and able.
Not the way it might
be someday in the future
if only, if only. The invitation
to love it now. No
exceptions. No rain date.
No directions how to get there.
No box for maybe.
The invitation arrives
as it always does,
without an envelope.
Without a return address.
No RSVP. No name on it
but your own. No trumpets.
No angels singing about
how all flesh is holy. No
clowns telling jokes.
No balloons.
It arrives so quiet,
but so sincere, right beside
the impulse to crumple
it up. Now what to do.
The rising urge to run.
The rising urge to bow.
Such a lovely ending, from “It arrives so quiet…” and on down the page. Those conflicting responses, so much like the way we treat our bodies.
Despite all of my abuse, wearing out the struts and ball joints, shocks and torsion bars, my body still hugs me, and to it, I bow. Thank you for reminding me.