At the foot of the waterfall,
I slip on the rocks and topple
backwards into private dark.
The water mutters sorry, sorry,
but I've stumbled over dry stone
because of age and clumsiness.
In a whirl of day-night sky
rich with unkempt promises,
I’m outside myself looking in.
The spring forest mumbles
its half-formed melodies,
mocking the absent songbirds.
Voices of a school group hiking
up a nearby peak retort
to the wind-speak with their shrills.
I feel malformed lying here
with bruises flowering and bones
intact but freshly resentful.
Upright again, I’m a challenge
to myself. I climb the ledge
to the fork in the trail and choose.
I’m too old to hike alone,
but no one’s ever quite alone
on these trails in sprightly weather.
The murmur of the waterfall fades
and one authentic thrush critiques
my concern for mutual extinction.
My little fear subsides. Only
a couple of rotten spots to prove
I’m still human enough to hurt.
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