Today on our walk you turned your ankle.
And that was no small thing, the pain you felt,
clouds across the sun, a shadow to foretell
storms of pain to come. Oh, the acute angles
our bodies make in love, elbow and knee,
rib and hip, shoulder blade and collarbone.
How can I forgive that numb, random stone,
the years, (if we survive), those aches we’ll feel?
If this were the last rhyme I ever write,
what should my hands choose to fabricate?
They’d spin straw into gold to bribe the fates,
stitch a bright charm against the sprain of night,
and weave one last tapestry of our tears,
so we can ache another ten thousand years.