My cheek is flat
to the cold hardwood,
the crawlspace of cold air
beneath it, the land
My face is still,
my fingers are still,
I hold my breath and my lungs are still,
but the earth is in motion under my fingertips.
Some days it seems to speed toward me,
a cartoon snowball, and on others
it rolls and bounces away, faster
than my flying feet. I can no more stop its turn
than stop the metronome of my own heart.
Tonight the boys will light the candles
in the chandelier over the table
and set it spinning. I’ll put out a hand,
steady the dancing tapers, but even so,
the wax will burn down,
we’ll push back from the table,
another day sliding away
beneath our feet.
Gratefully writing along
with other good folks