The disjoint connecting hip to thigh,
the loss of footing on the stairs,
an instant sharp pain somewhere near the heart
and sudden ringing in the ear when no bell tolls,
portend the last declension:
the loss of kilter skiing down a chute,
hurtling into Nothing.
I’d cling fast to the tanager in April,
the August double off a Pirate bat,
my grandchild’s face on Halloween,
were there not somewhere near the heart
or coming from it
the inkling of a descending winter truth:
Nothing may be a well of grace
to fall in looking up
to see how far down
Love has to reach
to raise us from it.
