Day 440: The Benefit of Injury

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the flightless go to the ground,
no matter the depth of down
‘neath the wing;

no matter the preening
that occupied spring.

 

but faith,

the rain is falling gently
that i might drink.

the clouds are coming,
deep grey in cover,
that i might sleep
and rest.

see,
even these somber things
are lovers, too.

there is no sun in my eye to blind me,
nor fever in my flight to keep me
from chasing the grave back to it’s gate,
in proofs and threats
and futile bets
to persuade death
he can’t come for me,
can he?

 

the benefit of injury
is to be rendered
a sedentary witness

to what has always been

yet in my

”wellness,”

rarely seen.

 

now,

the pain i wish i could ignore
reveals the helpers i too often do.

 

i am in and out of sleep
like a whale
moving in deep waters
and unaware of breath,

 

from dozing lids,
i hear laughter from the kitchen,
young voices and old.
i hear the same old stories told
but to new ears.

mine are not new,

but they still hear.
and hear better, i think,
with age.

those stories
have new meaning.

 

aren’t we all travelers
from Jerusalem to Jericho
and beaten upon the way?

i am so grateful for the gowns
that lay soft upon the skin.
and the doler of the coin.
and the keeper of the inn.

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