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.