When We Were Gymnasts

Remember when you turned cartwheels
in the schoolyard.
And danced down the length
of the fallen tree, four inches wide
that crossed the creek
one foot in front of the other
and pivoted into the leaves?
And somersaulted down the long green hill.
And bent over backwards to see the world inverted.
And on the bed.
And twisted yourself into pretzels with supple ease.
And hung from your knees on the climbing frame
until your hair stood on end?

Do you remember how it felt, then
to tread the thin line of things
to spring into the air with nobody looking
to dangle from the branches of trees
to balance on one leg, in arabesque
to be without gravity?
To tumble and get up again. It never hurts. And do it all again.
And as you leapt off the swings
thudding down two feet in the dirt
the birds gave you perfect tens.