Response to Rosemerry W. Trommer’s poem: “One Great Story”
Sometimes it’s those tall, thin pines, the ones
with good posture, the way they sway and dance in wind
as if some wild jazz band lives inside their limbs,
but if I’m being honest, it’s thick-waisted oaks
that feel like ancestors.
I envy their height, the way they reach
in all directions,
toward light, but also deep underground
where they’re held firmly to the earth,
unlike my poor weak bones
that whisper: do not fall.
I look down at my shoes,
grateful for the way they cradle my feet,
remind me:
step carefully, stay upright, take your medicine.
Funny—the things we bind ourselves to:
faith, hope, medicine, shoes.
Lately I’m holding onto myself, something
unlearned when my bones were strong,
when falling
was just
one way
of being
closer to the earth.
