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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.

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