“Trek”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-25)

 

Fingers numb, and beginning to ache

My march from the easy chair, a plodding trek

Slow and stiff with the task

I never thought too much about reaching an age where footsteps were miracles

It seemed more likely I would be dead by now

And so, I faced the future without favor or dread

Running hot

Running forward

Running, running on fumes

Running barefoot on gravel, down the driveway’s edge

This ragged ride, taken without forethought

Aches in the morning, paying tribute

To my run on the route

Now I am past a half-century, and more

Still above the loam

Shaggy and crabby, and creaky

Stumbling on stones

Carrying the memory of places seen and accomplices surrendered

To time, the restless master

Ticking off lost lives, with the regularity of a metronome

A rhythmic guide, unwavering

A set of guardrails

A galvanized pail

In which to carry all the courage of a capricious child

I need that reserve, once in a while

Like a medicine flask

It bolsters my backbone

Keeps me erect and attentive

When I want to fade

Weak and wobbly

Wishing for warming

Crouched over a shadow cast in the snow

Where my fingerprints froze