As if with an awkward partner

Walt Whitman Bathing

After his stroke, he would walk into the woods
On sunny days and take off all his clothes
Slowly, one plain shoe
And one plain sock at a time, his good right hand
As gentle as a mother’s, and bathe himself

In a pond while murmuring

And singing quietly, splashing awhile

And dabbling at his ease, white hair and beard

Afloat and still streaming

Down his white chest when he came wading ashore

Naked and quivering.

Then he would pace

In circles, sometimes dancing

A few light steps, his right leg leading the way

Unsteadily but considerately for the left

As if with an awkward partner.

He seemed as oblivious to passersby

As he was to his bare body, which was no longer

A nursery for metaphors

Or a banquet hall for figures of self-praise

But a bedroom or a modest bed in that bedroom

Or the covers on that bed

In need of airing out in the sunlight.

He would sit down on the bank and stare at the water

For an hour as if expecting

Something to emerge, some new reflection

In place of the old.

Meanwhile, he would examine

The postures of wildflowers,

The workings of small leaves, holding them close

To his pale eyes while mumbling inaudibly.

He would dress then, helping

His left side with his right as patiently

As he might have dressed the wounded or the dead,

And would lead himself toward home like a dear companion.

David Wagoner

Lovely, isn't it? That last line, especially.