Embodiment

I am an old woman discovering my knees and elbows, the joints
That make so much possible and that have failed me and been fixed.

I am an old woman who was once a dancer, and who spun
Piqué turns across a rain swept lawn.

I am an old woman and my arms still reach across time, across years and decades, I long to touch smooth surfaces, rough skin, small hands.
My hands have caressed children, held a pen, kneaded bread and directed traffic. 

Late one night, many years ago, I danced for myself in a room where
The light created mirrors of the big windows. I turned and whirled,
Tired beyond sleep, I spun and stretched in those mirrored windows.

Now, my knees and elbows ache when the rain coming, and I feel the air changing in the bones of my back, and I am often afraid of falling, my body warning me even before consciousness that a pavement is uneven, or a road is icy.

In dreams my body works the way it used to, and I watch my arms lift in darkened windows, feel the wind on my face, the pull of the sun on skin, my muscles remember  and I am re-embodied.