Motion, I love thee, I love thee to death.
I am moved by every gifted breath.
As long as I have thee, it’s never too late
to do dancing or reaching or swimming or weights
or cooking or hugging or typing or talking
or the miraculous action of walking
with my movable moving arms and legs
and torso and feet and face and neck.
Thou makest me strong like a Herculess
thou blowest to pieces the thoughts that depress
thou pumpest more blood to my dear little brain
thou banishest big pain with good little pains
(the bigger and harder and longer I wiggle
the smaller and weaker and shorter the niggles)
thou quickenest my thinking speed
thou puttest to rights my executive deeds
(not my remembers but never mind that)
thou preventest the peril of falling down flat
thou postponest disease and frailty and stroke
thou propellest me towards those other moving folk
thou nourishest muscle and microbiome
thou regeneratest confidence and hope
thou tightenest the loose and loosenest the tight
and bringest the sweetest of sleep every night.
I move. I love. I live.
A frivolous poem with unpronounceable verbs in the antiquated second person form. And yet I’m deadly serious. Moving is an enormous privilege. Even to move a thumb is a privilege. To move is to be alive. And I appreciate the privilege of life.