I love legs.
I love the long legs of a Cabernet Franc caressing the inside curve of a stemmed glass.
I love the naked lankiness of the kitchen table after the table cloth has been stripped off, exposing the legs and the floor littered with dog and cat hair, and crumbs.
I loved the first leg of the trip, Seattle to London, the second leg, London to Delhi; but was not so fond of the last leg of the trip London to Seattle, when the trip starts feeing like a millipede, and all I want is to be home.
I loved the unabashed 70s when shorts were short and legs long, but not so much this modern baggy false modesty.
I love my legs, my well used legs. After years of walking, biking, hiking and gardening, they are veiny, prone to cramps, and, I’m ashamed to admit, not very flexible. My mother always likes to tell the story about how, at 2, I walked 4 miles without complaining, until the last block before we got home.
I guess I’ve been legging it a long time.
Once as graceful as chinese acrobats balances plates, the giant alliums are on their last legs, beginning the slow decent to the ground.