Before This/Day Closes

 

Before This/

Day Closes

3 January 

continued--

Last winter, nearing

its end, I bought a pair

of ice grips and let them settle in

for an entire spring

summer, autumn, and now back

again into another winter.  Had I

remembered them in

time I would have torn their labels

musty from their wait (weight?)

and strapped them to

my boot heals my shaky

confidence and down

the slightest

of hills to the mailbox.  The ice

thickens and melts

at the mercy of the weight air.

Or the silence of it, I can't

decide.  Still, had I

found the grips, had I

found the envelope, had I 

found the stamps, this

little bit would not be anything

but ether, but waiting.

I never could skate.  The idea

of standing on blades

makes me, like from a great high

looking out, need to bear

up my insides with my own

two hands.  It's not heights

we are

afraid of.  It's falling 

from them.  Even if the fall

is short.  Only the vulnerable

go to their knees.  Before

this day closes I know

I'll be vulnerable.