Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Black Ice

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.