A few weeks ago,
A couple of weeks before Christmas,
Seven weeks ago,
Truly, the week before Thanksgiving.
You slipped on black ice.
You tarried stilly,
Teeth tight ,eyes clenched, and face contorted.
You watched for seers,
Afraid to give detractors, friends, fans
To revel—or worse—worry after.
And there you've remained,
Throughout the season of joy and thanks,
Two months now, on your ass, self-pitied.
Damn patch of black ice:
Existent in lore, retold gospel,
An unfroze fiction,
An excuse concocted to mask fear.
Amblers wouldn't stop.
Autumn ended and winter arrived:
Red leaves and snowflakes
Gathered in your gloomed, hollowed outline.
Your trail, unrivaled,
You feared you had peaked, you'd pinnacled.
The best year ever:
You'd linger always liminally.
It was your own foot
That you—distracted—stumbled over.
Fear is natural,
Gravity works on everybody.
Even if still sore,
Still, or still scared, or still embarrassed,
You need to get up.
Thank God for the rest, for the stillness.
Think of what you've seen:
Straight walkers, runners, stumblers stumbling.
Coated in nature’s humility.
Favor the aching
On your tailbone, slow your pace a bit.
Leave the black ice funk:
Walk it off, don't forget, watch those steps.
I need you to watch our steps.
I need you.