Now That I Am Old

Now that I am old
and my body sags and falls and makes deep crevices in my face,
and stares back a stranger, I think with such regret
about all the years I neglected to love my body.

Preoccupied with some imagined flaw of hip or thigh,
obsessed with an ounce, a pound,
shamed by the scale, oblivious, totally unaware
of what I wore upon myself:

A body so beautiful that I should have run
naked through the streets, dancing for joy, celebrating
every pore, every hair, every soft and supple place
of this body I have, the cloak of perfect skin I'm in.

But, alas, I did not celebrate nor run naked;
I did not appreciate or admire;  mostly I hid and fretted
self-consciously about wearing this outer shell,
the body which I was given.

I lived mostly unaware of the treasure that is mine,
as if it were an ill fitting dress, not cut quite right,
here too loose, there, too tight,
When all along, it was perfection.

Now that I am old,
what regret I have that I did not love my body back then.
I try to love it now, and appreciate its capabilities.
It keeps me immune to the dangers that could do me in.

This body produced human beings, and nurtured them,
a miracle, I'd say, to grow a life in such a way.
This body could run and play and bring such pleasure,
back in the day.

It moves a little slower since I have grown so old,
but I am more inclined to love it now, this body of mine.
I can still imagine myself running naked through the meadow,
young and lively, filled with joy at life itself.

I can still imagine, even though I am old.