It’s surprising how quickly
the floor rises to greet me
these days.
Two weeks ago I soared magically
on a lovely Persian carpet
across the new shine my husband
so agreeably added to our hardwood floors.
There was a mighty crash.
Shocking both
for the speed with which I skated
and the naive bravado I assumed
when congratulating myself for no blood
or splintered bone.
‘I’m not old”
I said
as foolhardy foreshadowing
a full twenty-four hours
before I couldn’t move my neck
for days.
The floors of Virginia
have displayed remarkable swiftness as well
My beloved grand-dog
was the furry catalyst last night.
Tripping over his adorable Westie frame
catapulted me into a pitiable crumpled form.
A spectacular faceplant with reading glasses skidding….
My knee and cheekbone racing to see
which would impact first.
I reclined with my frozen pea ice pack
(preemptive ibuprofen on board)
grateful again for no obvious fractures.
But I wondered:
how I’d reached my mid-sixties so quickly,
how much more treacherous
floors would soon become,
and how long it would be
until my neck ceased moving
once again.
