The yard remembers its cadence in spring.
For a time after the stroke
My feet and legs forgot that most
Pedestrian of utilities, walking.
They remembered, eventually.
And though run and jog and skip
Are more distant memories
They are fine for the walk to the store,
The subway, slow rambles,
And up and down and up and down the stairs.
Like the yard that briefly, every year
In the spring, before the mowing-time,
The volleyball nets and lawn sprinklers,
Remembers it was a forest, and sends forth
Massed maypops and yellow violets,
And one or two white eggs of bloodroot.
By Rick Borchelt