Who deserves the gold of the stripped willow,
Or the absolute stillness of fog upon snow?
Who deserves the overhead flight of geese,
The way their honking helps spirit take flight?
Who deserves to be the one not killed
In the five car wreck on I-90 just yesterday,
The first day of the first real storm we’ve had?
I don’t understand why I was able to run
Heat-drenched and naked
Into the snow under stars,
Wave my arms and legs through powder
Flying like a ground-driven angel
Sent by some great winter-driven god.
We plunged back into the tub,
Passed happy dogs wagging tails,
Caught up in the joy of seeing humans
Act like they would, were they human,
We felt the glorious sting and stab
Of hot water upon closed pores
Saving us from what might, otherwise, kill us.
It was a calculated game,
To revel in being alive, to pretend,
For a moment, we control it.
It’s a curious thing, grace,
Every second we breathe
Our bodies are bathed in it.