The distance from the top
Of the ladder
To the flat rock
In the path
Is proportional
To the pain.
I imagine the arc
Made by the top
Of my head
And the ground,
As in those too brief seconds
I flew earthwards.
There was no thinking:
It just happened,
And was over.
Lying there
On my back
In pain
Grateful
I could move my limbs,
I went over each inch
Of my body, asking,
"Are you okay?"
My head complained,
But missed the rock
By an inch or two.
I could crawl.
Later I could stand, walk,
But not without constant pain.
Pain, the not-so-gentle messenger
That we are earth-bound, gravity-lovers,
That no matter how much our spirits soar,
We cannot fly.
Ellen B. Rust
4/5/11
