Black Ice
A few weeks ago,
A couple of weeks before Christmas,
Seven weeks ago,
November
Truly, the week before Thanksgiving.
You slipped on black ice.
Unexpectedly counter-prostrate,
You tarried stilly,
Coma-like
Teeth tight ,eyes clenched, and face contorted.
You watched for seers,
Afraid to give detractors, friends, fans
Opportunity
Burdensome
To revel—or worse—worry after.
And there you've remained,
Throughout the season of joy and thanks,
Nursing vertebrae.
Back broken
Two months now, on your ass, self-pitied.
Damn patch of black ice:
Existent in lore, retold gospel,
An unfroze fiction,
Wrecklessness
An excuse concocted to mask fear.
Amblers wouldn't stop.
Autumn ended and winter arrived:
Red leaves and snowflakes
Life’s residue
Gathered in your gloomed, hollowed outline.
Your trail, unrivaled,
You feared you had peaked, you'd pinnacled.
The best year ever:
Rapturous
You'd linger always liminally.
It was your own foot
That you—distracted—stumbled over.
Fear is natural,
Gravity
Gravity works on everybody.
Even if still sore,
Still, or still scared, or still embarrassed,
You need to get up.
Comfort me
Thank God for the rest, for the stillness.
Think of what you've seen:
Straight walkers, runners, stumblers stumbling.
Your periphery:
Nothing stopped
Coated in nature’s humility.
Favor the aching
On your tailbone, slow your pace a bit.
Leave the black ice funk:
Humbler now
Walk it off, don't forget, watch those steps.
I need you to watch our steps.
I need you.
